Refined by Fire
by wryter501
Summary: It began, as any shift in destiny did, with a choice - run and hide, or stay and fight. And because Merlin chose to stand still, his destiny and Arthur's - and others' - took a sharp right turn. Discovered by the knights, arrested by Arthur, Merlin faces Uther's questioner and judgment... Gold is, after all, refined in the flames... Mid-season 3 in-canon reveal.
1. Revelations and Reactions

**Refined by Fire**

 **A/N: Begins five minutes prior to the opening of ep.3.5 "The Crystal Cave", and will run through the end of ep.3.7 "The Castle of Fyrien".**

 **Also, btw, the** _ **how**_ **of the reveal is meant to be yawn-ordinary. Commonplace setting, both in series and in the fanfic world. It's what comes** _ **after**_ **that I hope will be unique…**

 **Chapter 1: Revelations and Reactions**

It began, as any shift in destiny does, with a choice.

So happened, this time it was a choice made by Merlin. On the spur of the moment, and possibly entirely on instinct. Or, contrary to instinct…

" _Run_!"

Arthur bellowed the order, shoving away from one incapacitated opponent and spearing Merlin – half-hidden by a tree trunk, that he might have no need to spare a thought for his own physical safety, and concentrate entirely on the surreptitious use of judicious magic to aid the prince, and the knights of the patrol also – with a fierce glare, before spinning to engage another.

Half a heartbeat. To obey or to disobey.

They could run. Just the two of them, the crown prince escaping relatively unscathed, Merlin the last line of secret defense guarding his back, sprinting like flushed jackrabbits through the underbrush over rough ground. Mounts and guard left behind to their fate.

Perhaps it would end with them sauntering through the sun-drenched fields of ripe wheat, leisurely returning to the gleaming white towers of the citadel to still the worry of those awaiting their return, to gather the acclaim – in Arthur's case – of extraordinary good luck and matchless skill.

Perhaps it would end with pursuit, and a stray arrow taking Arthur in the back, despite his chainmail. And Merlin dragging him to some tiny filthy desperate refuge, where his few physician's skills or sorcerer's spells would not be sufficient. And with Arthur's blood on his hands and tears in his eyes he would helplessly watch his prince – his _friend_ – fade toward death.

Or they could stay.

With the horses that would make a quicker getaway possible. With the knights that fought to reduce the threat and protect Arthur. Giving _their_ lives in the proven loyalty of bloodshed. Fulfilling oaths. Just as true to their purpose as Merlin.

"Merlin, run!" Arthur shouted, again momentarily free, head up and searching for the best and freest direction of escape.

But he knew, Arthur would not run until he was sure of Merlin's safety.

Even as Sir Arrok, the second-in-command of the patrol, bellowed a command of his own. "My lord, go! We will hold them off!"

Run. Go.

Hold them off.

Hide. Win. Save.

Arthur's life. Always the ultimate goal. Others had to die for that, for him. It was a fact, much as Arthur always hated to admit it. Merlin had to kill for that, much as he hated doing it. Had to let others die for that, keeping his secret that he might continue Arthur's invisible shield.

A choice. Go or stay. Run and hide and hope. Or stay and risk and hope.

And destiny took an abrupt right turn, by one man simply standing still.

Three bandits charged Arthur, who whirled to run – and checked, seeing Merlin unmoving. A sword lifted – further away, a crossbow. Arthur spun back to the fight, his own sword raised to meet the attack.

Wordless magic. Determined magic.

One man tripped, taking down his fellow- the crossbow bolt soared through the air in an impossible arc, slamming into the body of the third.

Merlin slipped to the other side of the trunk. Had Arthur seen? He never was completely sure, until the prince teased him for cowardice or remarked upon their ridiculously good luck.

Still outnumbered. And so little time. More roots, more heated metal, more dropped branches or deflected weapons. Merlin panted like he'd been running, or fighting physically. Arthur surged into his view again as the tides turned –

Hadn't Gaius once spoken of Sigan's power over the tides? Merlin grinned to himself, allowing his feet to stray forward, emerging from cover, the knights attacking with renewed vigor and resolve. _How's this for tide-turning_? he thought. _This sort of tide I'll turn any day._

And the last enemy – as the fighting men of Camelot staggered through their final opponents – sprang unexpectedly at Arthur's back.

Merlin, at once triumphant and irritated, let his hand move with the intent of his magic. Not completely necessary every time, anymore, but sometimes the action was an unconscious addition to his spell-work, spoken or silent, a habit of youth.

The bandit drew his blade back over his head to strike at Arthur's back – and the blade kept going, yanked from his grip by Merlin's magic as he clenched his fist over empty air.

The prince turned a split-second later, reacting to the threat of the man's presence and posture by spitting him right through the middle. His bewilderment over the attacker's unarmed state was a flash of expression, swiftly and casually dismissed; Arthur pushed the dying bandit off his sword and – giving Merlin a _there-you-are_ and _you're-all-right_ sort of glance – bent to clean his weapon.

"Behind you, my lord!" The warning was shouted by one of the knights approaching in a still-wary half-circle.

Arthur and Merlin both startled and turned, tensing for the threat – but there was no one.

"Sorcery, sire!" Sir Arrok exclaimed, pointing his sword. "He used magic!"

Merlin froze, feeling at once heavy as iron and incorporeal as smoke. Their eyes were on him, the red-caped, chainmail-clad knights, as they prowled closer.

A nightmare come true.

But they didn't concern him as much as… He watched the realization come to Arthur, slowly as the prince once again searched the clearing for the stranger who'd used forbidden magic – unsuccessful, follow the line of the focus of his men – stare incredulous at Merlin.

He had never felt so vulnerable in all his life. This moment, the culmination of years of worry and hope, always expected but somehow sudden as an arrow in the back and just as heart-stopping.

Sir Arrok added, _To disarm the last bandit, my lord_ , his voice faraway and vague and meaningless. Merlin was lost in the turmoil of emotions in Arthur's face – disbelief… unwilling acceptance… anger.

Sword still in hand, he stalked Merlin, who couldn't move.

"Is it true?" he demanded.

Merlin's knees sank him into a deeper crouch, through nervous fear or wary readiness for self-defense, he didn't know. Maybe an odd new instinct to kneel to his king, maybe a boneless weakness…

"Did you just use magic?"

Two dozen times he'd lived through near-exact repetitions of this circumstance. Now he found he preferred the accusation of cowardice, to the truth. But… no more lies.

Merlin nodded.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Sorcery.

The very word kicked Arthur's relaxing heart-rate right back up to mid-battle pace.

But no one was behind him save Merlin, as terrified in the open as he ever was cowering behind a tree to watch the skirmishes annoyingly regular for these patrols.

 _To disarm the last bandit_. The inexplicably empty-handed one that had surprised Arthur from behind. Lying there now in his own blood and gore, a scant pace from Arthur's feet.

Not Merlin. It just wasn't _possible_. Not his hopelessly clumsy, impudent, perpetually tardy _servant_.

But the truth was there, in Merlin's wide blue eyes, and Arthur _believed_ , even as he opened his mouth to say, somewhat stupidly – who confessed to sorcery after all, and why would he want such a thing from Merlin – "Is it true? Did you just use magic?"

Merlin nodded.

Fury rose, hot and swift and almost choked him.

Because Merlin was also incurably curious, and a bit obsessed with Arthur's safety, and he'd been born and raised outside Camelot's borders and his best friend there in Ealdor had been a sorcerer.

Damn him. Didn't he _know_ better? Didn't he know better than to get _caught_?  
Arthur stalked closer to Merlin – further from the knights - and growled, "Run."

Again, and wished with all his might that his servant had listened to him the first time. Merlin didn't move; he looked to be frozen with fear. Had he even heard Arthur?

" _Run_!" he gritted out again, putting out his left hand – his right still holding his bared blade, but unthreateningly down at his side – as if he could _push_ the idiot into a sprinted escape.

The knights obeyed their training. Led by Arrok – but including Leon - in a rush they surrounded Arthur and Merlin, swords all leveled at the skinny, terrified servant. Who stood mute and did nothing but stare wide-eyed at Arthur.

 _Idiot_ , he fumed.

"What are your orders, my lord?" Arrok said, actually prodding Merlin with the tip of his sword.

"Arrest him," Arthur spat wrathfully. There was nothing for it, anymore.

"Are you sure?" the knight dared question. "We have witnesses, and a confession. You would be within your rights, and it would be safer for us to –"

"We're not going to execute anybody!" Arthur growled, feeling nausea rise thick at the back of his throat at the thought. "Just – arrest him." Unwilling to watch – hadn't he performed this same absurd process before, and every time Merlin gave him that same innocent-hurt look, that Arthur had to deny pierced him right to the heart.

Only this time, the accusation had been admitted to...

A few minor considerations of injury sustained by the group were given the temporary attention of clean water and bandaging. He didn't announce it all at once, and risk the sort of respectful disagreement that might undermine his resolve or authority, but gave a handful of orders to individuals to begin setting up camp at a distance from the scene of the fight.

Deliberately he kept his attention away from Merlin, choosing to leave the handling of his fr- their captive – to his men. But the second time he turned his head without thinking, his lips already forming the _M_ of the name of his most constant companion… then he seated himself where Merlin was in full view, across the campsite, and he wouldn't forget the bizarre and catastrophic sequence of events that afternoon.

Sir Arrok and another had bound him in a seated position at the base of a large tree, his hands behind him. Gagged, and blindfolded. Which Arthur hadn't ordered specifically, but in the case of a captive able to use magic, a necessary precaution, and part of him recognized and approved of that detail of initiative. For their own safety.

Which was illogical. They didn't need protection from Merlin.

And. They'd used a torn strip of his shirt around his eyes, and stuffed his own neckerchief into his mouth. Red and blue. Arthur had wondered before, if the one color was worn as a token of his new home, but the younger man kept the other as he kept his irreverent personality, utterly unique as the neckerchief itself was.

Arthur leaned forward over his crossed legs and began to stroke a finer edge to his knife with a sharpening stone, keeping his movements slow and controlled, as the others moved about preparations for the night's camp – most of which would have been done by Merlin, under other circumstances – and Arthur and Merlin just sat.

He didn't initiate any conversation with his men, but responded to politely worded queries with forced calm. _Yes, I'm shocked. I never would have thought_ – that Merlin could actually make a useful contribution to a brawl. _Yes, I am very angry_ – that he twice! disobeyed my order to run.

But that was Merlin. Never very good at following orders, now it seemed he'd trespassed into breaking laws. And this one, to choose to break…

The third time one of the men approached to ask, "Are you all right, my lord?" he recognized the reason. What they were really asking.

Not, _did you know?_

But, _has he done anything to you? Feeling well, there, sire? Not – enchanted, or anything?_

Merlin didn't move.

And if dinner hadn't interrupted Arthur, he might have ground his knife steadily into a tool better used as a toothpick. He'd gradually recognized the precarious balance of the situation; immobilized and handicapped, Merlin was by no means _safe_. And that was without thinking what might happen upon their arrival in Camelot.

Arthur ground his teeth in pretending to chew. One word out of place, one look or action more sympathetic than condemning, and it might be ten times worse for Merlin on just the suspicion of such an enchantment. And Arthur might lose what little freedom his authority gave him, to look after Merlin's wellbeing. If _he_ were suspected – of enchantment or just sympathy – he would be _watched_ , at the very least.

Either way, his authority would end when they reached Camelot, and Uther was informed of this development.

No. There had to be another way.

"My lord?" Leon sat on his heels to one side of Arthur.

He lifted his head fractionally to grant the knight permission to address him. Sir Leon hadn't come to question him before; he felt a faint disappointment that this knight had succumbed to the temptation to make sure of Arthur, too.

But Leon said only, "Rations for the prisoner?"

Silence but for the pop and crackle of the fire between him and Merlin, forty feet away from him, beyond the circle of knightly camaraderie, however subdued or forced on this occasion. Everyone waited to hear his response, evaluate his reaction for the level of appropriately rabid anti-magic rhetoric.

"No," he said evenly, and a flicker of disapproval passed briefly through the older knight's eyes.

Arthur understood. He felt that way himself – this was _Merlin_ , who'd never hurt anyone, who didn't deserve to go hungry and thirsty no matter what laws he'd broken… Arthur was angry again. He felt that his hands were tied as tightly as his serv- as the sorcerer's.

"We don't need to waste provisions on him," he added. More than implying the result of bringing a proven magic-user back to Camelot.

It was exactly the right thing to say. More than one of the men nodded approvingly, though the dissatisfaction was clearer in Leon's face as he conveyed understanding and the intention of obedience in a single terse jerk of his head.

And it made Arthur sick to his stomach.

The sky faded to darkness. Shadows drew closer, reaching with chill fingers as far as they dared. The fire burned brighter, hotter, snapping and sparking merrily, fuel added periodically by one of the knights.

And if Arthur raised his eyes from the charring branches, coated with whitened ash and searing orange-yellow heat at the heart of it, he could see Merlin through the leaping crimson tongues of flame.

He was so still. And quiet.

And if he was sentenced to burn at the stake… Arthur would look upon this vision again. Only, Merlin not so quiet. Screaming and writhing, like others Uther had forced him to watch…

Arthur turned aside to his bedroll, arranging himself carefully. Pillowing his head on a combination of his bundle and Merlin's – both packed by the younger man only this morning. Staring up at the fire-lit undersides of the leaves, tossing lightly and distantly against the deep blue of the sky. Whispering.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin hated the blindfold.

His hands were tied. And he'd been threatened – by Sir Arrok, he thought he recognized the voice – that he'd be run through if he so much as flinched in the wrong direction. Though which direction was the wrong one, he didn't know. And couldn't ask, because of the gag. But it felt like his hearing was the only sense he had left, and that was muffled by the painful pounding of blood through his skull – and more specifically, the knot he was sure was forming, though he couldn't feel for himself.

The blow to the back of his head was maybe another safeguard to prevent him using magic, or a test to see if he would – and he couldn't, not against the knights, not if he wanted to someday persuade Arthur magic could be _good_ – or possibly even to soothe resentment over his habitual lack of proper respect shown to superiors. Sir Arrok again, if he had to guess. Though maybe it was unfair, since he'd been hit with a sword-hilt from behind. After he'd been blindfolded.

Theoretically, Arthur should be as safe in the midst of a troop of knights as sleeping in his own bed. Only, because Merlin couldn't see this, he couldn't quite convince nerves and muscles to relax.

Merlin's thoughts were like an extra hammer-blow to his brain, but this one he clung to. Arthur hadn't run him through.

The prince had been clearly furious – but he'd told Merlin to run. One moment he'd given him, before they'd both been surrounded by Uther's finest – only Merlin couldn't. Couldn't leave Arthur _now_. Another thought he clung to through the exhausting ebb and flow of pain.

There was a second reason he hated the blindfold, though. Contemplating this moment for years, since the axe had fallen in the courtyard on Merlin's first day in Camelot, over the months and years as he'd gotten to know the prince – _his_ prince – he knew that Arthur was only dangerous when his temper got the better of his judgment. And that moment had passed.

But the others. With the blindfold on, Merlin wouldn't be able to see if one of the knights might just decide to end the potential threat he posed with a blade between his ribs or through his throat. Magic put everyone on edge, that way, it was difficult to tell how any one person might react to unveiling a sorcerer. That was not the way he wanted to die – he wasn't ready to die. He wanted to live – didn't everyone? – but his life in danger always made him worry about Arthur, without him. Yeah, he'd managed almost twenty years before they'd even met, but – Arthur would be dead a dozen times over, if not for the protection of Merlin's magic.

His magic was necessary, for Arthur's life. Therefore, _he_ was necessary, and must continue to live. That was only logic.

Merlin's heart thudded whenever he heard footsteps approaching through the fallen leaves and the coursing of his pulse through his head, whenever he felt the vibrations in the ground beneath him. He flinched, occasionally, at a sudden noise. And someone was sharpening a knife – across his stretched nerves, it felt like.

No one spoke to him. No one touched him, not to hurt or to help. It was as if he'd ceased to exist.

Muscles cramped and he worked them surreptitiously, squeezing his fingers to keep sensation. His neckerchief pulled moisture from his mouth and did not taste pleasant, and he resolved to keep them cleaner…

But things would never be the same, would they. There would be no excuses this time, no last-minute explanations of why he wasn't a sorcerer, after all. He wouldn't be allowed Gaius' hug – or a smack on the back of his head; at the moment, the thought made him wince instead of grin – a short night on his hard bed and a long list of Arthur's worst chores to assure him that all had gone back to normal. He wouldn't be washing this neckerchief along with the rest of the laundry, tomorrow.

What would he be doing? Good question.

Did he have a plan? He rarely had a plan. Plans got fouled up and situations deteriorated unrecognizably. Reactions and excuses were what he was good at. So – did Arthur have a plan?

A twig cracked, and he flinched, suddenly attentive to his physical senses rather than the sore throb of his thoughts. The twig had alerted him, because all else was silent. Not the waiting silence of every knight on edge due to danger, but – restful silence. Was it that late al-

A hand touched him, and he yelped into the gag of his neckerchief.

"Shut _up_ , idiot!" Arthur growled, so close in his ear that he felt the prince's breath.

He couldn't help collapsing back against the tree in rather limp relief, as Arthur's fingers removed his gag and blindfold simultaneously – one up, and one down. He blinked at the small but painfully bright spot of the campfire as his eyes tried to adjust, tried to work some moisture back into his mouth. A glint of sharp metal showed in Arthur's hand as he turned his attention to the side; Merlin flinched before he felt the cool flat of the blade slip between his fingers.

"What are you doing?" he hissed at the prince.

"What do you think?" Arthur returned. "Helping you escape."

Merlin turned toward him, which only served to hinder Arthur's efforts at the binding rope behind him.

"Your pack is there – rations and water." The dark lump just beyond Merlin's left boot. "Leon's got the watch for another three hours," Arthur continued, and Merlin squinted at the figure of the older knight, studiously _not_ noticing his prince releasing a magic-user. "And we won't be able to track you in the dark, so you've got six hours – seven if I can delay the rest convincingly. We'll be faster than you on horseback, but we're closer to the border here than the citadel – if you cross it before we catch you up, then we'll have to –"

"No," Merlin blurted, twisted his tied hands further out of Arthur's grip. A sudden indefinable fear shot through him at the suggestion, increasing the beat of his blood in his skull almost unbearably.

Arthur pushed to reach his bonds again. "If you're worried about getting me in trouble, don't be. Your escape will be easy enough to explain. Magic." Merlin glanced up to see Arthur's mouth twist as if the word tasted foul to him.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"You're an idiot," the prince told him, and he thought – though in the uncertain light he could've been wrong – that Arthur was trying not to smile. "How many times did you think you could use that spell before someone caught you at it? Didn't anyone ever teach you that using magic corrupts your soul?" Merlin gaped at him, sure that he'd heard wrong, though the fog of his headache. "Go home, Merlin, back to Ealdor – and don't use it again."

So Arthur didn't know. Not exactly. Not fully. Arthur didn't _understand_ … about magic… about Merlin.

If he obeyed his prince, escaped Camelot – would he go back to waiting? to farming? – to hoping not to receive the news of Arthur's death? What about his destiny?

And what about Morgana? She'd be furious to learn even so much as Arthur believed. She'd be even more furious if Arthur told her of his part in Merlin's escape – he could see the prince even now, confiding in the girl he thought of as a sister, expecting her relief to match his own at Merlin's safety and freedom, beyond Uther's reach. Arthur would be unprotected, from threats magical and physical, unaware of the danger the king's ward posed from within, enemies like Morgause from without.

And Arthur would keep believing that magic corrupted.

He couldn't be Arthur's invisible shield, beside him as his manservant, any longer. But he also couldn't just run away. He couldn't think any further than that; those two thoughts alone were clear – Arthur hadn't run him through; he couldn't leave Arthur now.

"No," he said again, more insistently, and both of them froze as the nearest slumbering knight muttered and shifted. Leon twitched as if he'd stopped himself glancing over.

"Are you really this stupid?" Arthur growled.

It wasn't his intelligence he needed to prove. That wouldn't convince the prince – the once and future king – to change the laws, lift the ban, bring magic back. Someday.

No, he needed to prove the nature of magic itself. Not dark and dangerous, not corruptive. Just, a force of nature, like flowing water or blowing wind or warming sunlight. Useful, and beneficial, if governed wisely, like any other skill.

Merlin struggled against Arthur, determined to cut him free. He didn't want anyone to wake, either, to discover Arthur himself breaking his father's law – though it wouldn't be the first time for that, either.

"I'm not leaving. I haven't done anything _wrong_!" he said intensely. He'd raise his voice if he had to, he thought.

"Breaking the law isn't –" Arthur cut himself off as a second knight shifted, rolling awkwardly in his bedroll to a more comfortable position. "What makes you think you'll be acquitted at a trial?" Arthur demanded in a lower voice, sitting back on his heels. "What's so important in Camelot that you can't just –"

"You," Merlin said simply. "I said I was happy being your servant til the day I –"

"You want that day to be tomorrow?" Arthur interrupted. "And how on earth do you think you'll serve me by that?"

"It'll be all right, I'll think of something," Merlin said tiredly. He kind of wished Arthur would go away and let his head ache in peace, so he wouldn't have to _argue_. Or think.

"You? Think?" Arthur looked like he wanted to hit him.

Merlin only watched him. Arthur could believe in a stranger's guilt, watch a stranger's execution with nary a twinge. But he was ready to forgive Merlin's single use of magic, ready to save his life… after only a few short years. Uther had been ready to send Gaius to his death last year on the witchfinder's word – regretfully, maybe, but still without pause – after decades of loyal service.

Arthur was different. Merlin couldn't leave him, now. The punishment – the execution – he'd figure something out.

"Trust me," Merlin said softly.

Arthur's jaw was set, hard. He didn't respond, only toyed with his knife for a moment. Then gave Merlin a heated glare which he read instantly – the prince hated the feeling of helplessness Merlin's evident stupidity gave him. He pushed to his feet and prowled back to his bedroll on the far side of the fire where he threw himself down with his back to Merlin. And didn't look at him again.

 _I'm sorry_ , Merlin thought at him, bending forward to try to rub one temple against the side of his knee, in a fruitless attempt to ease the throbbing. Hopefully he'd get a chance to say the same to Gaius – and maybe Morgana, though she'd made her own choices and probably his words meant less than nothing to her. _But I'm not giving up. Not leaving Camelot, not leaving you._

Where there's life, there's hope.

After a moment, Leon turned, and made his way soundlessly to Merlin's side. He didn't ask what had been said, what either Arthur or Merlin was thinking or feeling. Leon only checked that Merlin's hands were securely bound behind him, then picked up the torn hem of his shirt that had served as a blindfold.

"Sorry," he whispered to Merlin. "No one should know he spoke to you. And if anyone thought you could remove these with magic…" He didn't have to say more. Merlin could guess what restraints might be used, if the other knights thought gag and blindfold ineffective. He'd probably be lucky if all they did was knock him out and sling him unconscious over the saddle.

Leon paused, set the blindfold across his knee, then picked up the abandoned water-skin to position for Merlin's use. Merlin gulped it gratefully, though warmish and tasting faintly of leather, it felt wonderful in his dry mouth and down a dusty throat.

"Thanks," he managed.

The knight looked at him unsmiling, a wrinkle of uncomfortable uncertainty between his brows, then lifted the blindfold to replace it as Merlin dipped his head in cooperation. A moment later the neckerchief was tugged up over his jaw and between his lips also. Merlin heard Leon pick up the pack Arthur had brought for his escape, to return it to its place and conceal the evidence of Arthur's attempt.

Merlin's stomach growled, and his head thumped. It was going to be a long night.

 _I've had worse_ , he reminded himself.

It wasn't much comfort.

…..*….. …..*….. ….*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It had been a calculated risk, sending Sir Arrok back to Camelot as a messenger, last night. But the knight had seemed the most – unpredictable – of the lot of them, when it came to the question of Arthur's servant. Well, he'd gotten the man away from Merlin. And Arthur hadn't woken to Merlin's bloody murdered body and Arrok's excuse of attempted escape.

But, the first version of events that the king had heard, had been Sir Arrok's.

Arthur probably shouldn't have been surprised to find his very own reception party waiting on the palace stairs in the front courtyard, midmorning, when the horses' hooves rang across the cobblestones. Uther, stern and cold, and Gaius, also stern to cover any other emotion – even Morgana with Guinevere behind her, the girls' expressions a mix of scared and curious.

"Arthur," the king said, with a repressive flash of relief, coming two steps downward as Arthur dismounted to meet him, though the king's eyes flicked almost immediately over his shoulder to their captive, still restrained as he had been all night. "You're all right."

"Yes, Father, I'm fine," Arthur said. His stomach was in knots – he _had_ to play this right. "The bandits were no match for us. The men fought bravely, and even Merlin-" He gestured behind him, the knights dismounting, Leon assisting Merlin with apparent indifference.

"Yes, the sorcerer," the king interrupted coldly. "Take him immediately to the cells, Leon – and Brenner. Gaius, as we discussed?"

Arthur was not the only one to glance at the old physician in surprised query, but Gaius – hands hidden in the sleeves of his blue robe, the strap of his case over one shoulder - merely bowed acquiescence.

It never worked to argue with his father, and certainly not in public. "He's had neither food nor water," Arthur stated evenly, raising his voice to include Gaius as well. Not going behind his father's back. Not showing sympathy for a sorcerer, whoever he may be, merely mentioning a fact.

Uther would be watching him closely; he could do Merlin no good if he was confined to his chambers or escorted by constant guard like a naughty child. Any hint of anything that might be labeled enchantment, and his servant's life was as good as ended. Just… wait for an opportunity. Make an opportunity.

And hope to all the gods there be that the boy would hear sense, for once.

His father gave him a mildly sardonic look. "He won't need them," he said. "He'll be executed as soon as we can erect a pyre."

Arthur's stomach lurched. Morgana was white, Guinevere's hands covered her mouth, but not the horror in her dark eyes. He hoped Merlin was far enough away that he hadn't heard the king's judgment.

"Don't you think it would be wise to have a trial for him, Father," he suggested. Don't you think it would be wise to adjust the knights' training by this small detail, shorten this council meeting by half an hour… The king turned – so Arthur could also – to watch Merlin being hauled away by two knights, Gaius pacing behind them, his round physician's case over his shoulder.

"Arthur, with witnesses and a confession, of what use is a trial," Uther questioned with something so like amused boredom that Arthur struggled for a moment to breathe.

 _Merlin's life. Merlin's_ life _, dammit. Keep your temper, and he_ might _listen to you. Raise your voice, and you've lost him. Throw a tantrum and you might as well toss the first torch yourself_.

"Well. He has been part of the household service over three years, now," Arthur pointed out. _Show some compassion, some mercy_ … he wondered if he should mention the circumstances of Merlin's assignment to the post of his manservant.

Uther's eyes narrowed. Across the courtyard, Merlin stumbled over a threshold, disappeared into the dark throat of a corridor that led downward.

 _Delay_ , Arthur thought. Delay. Convince. Maybe one more night, another opportunity for escape. And if Merlin got a trial, got his chance to say, _I didn't do anything wrong_ , and no one listened to him, maybe then he would listen when Arthur – _when_ , for the love of Camelot, not _if_ – when Arthur smuggled him to the freedom of the woods and ordered again, _Run_.

"I see your point," Uther said. "The access he's had - there's no telling what activities he's gotten up to since he's been here. What plots he's been part of."

Morgana inhaled, stiffening, and her eyes sparked green fire. Guinevere's expression, by contrast, softened toward contemplation.

"No, that's not what I meant," Arthur protested.

"His trial is set for one hour after the noon meal," Uther declared, turning abruptly to stride away.

Arthur took one step and stopped. No, can't argue. Can't shout. Can't kick something, or hit something, or –

"It's true, then?" Morgana demanded, stalking forward. She seemed more angry than worried; though Arthur at the moment felt both, anger with the king was easier to focus on feeling. "Merlin used magic?"

"Yeah, apparently." Arthur reached to rub his eyes, realized he was still wearing his riding gloves, and halted the gesture. "I didn't actually see, but it seems the last bandit attacked me from behind, and Merlin – disarmed him. From ten feet away. Saved my life, probably." He said the last in a mumble of chagrin – not only that he'd needed saving, but that doing so had put Merlin's life in danger. Much more so than if the servant had just picked up a sword to attempt using _that_.

"Of course he can save _your_ life," Morgana muttered spitefully, but before Arthur could wonder, Guinevere had put her small brown hand on his sleeve.

"But you're all right?" she ventured, her dark eyes deep pools of warm concern. "Both of you?"

"Yes." For now. He gritted his teeth again, stripping off his gloves to give his hands something to do besides curl into shaking fists. He wanted to get to the privacy of his bedchamber and commit some destruction – and the thought that it would have to be cleaned and sorted by someone other than Merlin drained the desire right out of the center of his chest, along with most of his energy. He actually looked down to see if the hole might be visible.

"Arthur," Morgana said hesitantly, both girls following as he climbed the stairs wearily, headed for a wash and change, at least. "How – how long do you think he's been using magic?"

"How the hell should I know?" Arthur said flatly. "I didn't even know he knew a spell, much less that he was capable of using it effectively."

"To – disarm a bandit, you said?"

He glanced back at her; she wouldn't quite meet his eyes. Behind her, Guinevere gave him a quizzical look; she had no insight into the behavior or attitude of the king's ward herself, this time.

"Jerked the sword right out of his hand," Arthur said. And wasn't that just like Merlin, too? Risk his own life learning and using magic to save Arthur's in extreme circumstances – and it would have to be a spell that didn't actually harm someone else, only made it impossible for them to cause harm, even if an attack would have been far more efficient or useful or –

"Hm," Morgana said.

"Why, exactly?" He was tired and anxious; instead of a bath and some light-hearted abuse of his irreverent and quick-witted servant on his return home, he faced a battle of a different sort. Where the stakes were higher and the consequences of losing grim and the chances of victory slim to none.

"No reason. I guess… we'll just have to attend the trial, if we want our questions answered, right, Gwen? Come." Morgana swept down the corridor past him in a rustle of purple silk.

Guinevere bit her lip. "He'll be all right," she said to Arthur, as much asking for reassurance for herself as offering it to him. Another quick light squeeze of her hand on his arm, and she was gone as well, hurrying after her mistress.

Arthur took a deep breath and headed for his empty room alone.


	2. Motives and Goals

**Chapter 2: Motives and Goals**

Merlin had been biting his tongue all morning.

Well, his dirty, sodden neckerchief, anyway.

The reason he had stayed past his first week in Camelot. Twofold, and yet the same. Arthur, and magic. To protect the prince who represented the hope of freedom for himself and his kin, until he was ready to see magic clearly for what it was and for what it wasn't, and make his own decisions unbiased by the pain and fear of his father. To learn and develop his gift as a responsibility to himself, to the magical community, and to Arthur. To be the best sorcerer he could be, in his prince's service.

 _I'm happy to be your servant, until the day I die._

So he stayed, even today. Bound and unable to see or speak, though, how in all hells was he supposed to use this for good? How was he supposed to correct the prince's misconceptions if he couldn't speak, and if Arthur couldn't be seen to listen to him, anymore?

More than once that morning, his stomach grumbling and his head aching, his equilibrium whirling without his vision to correct _up_ and _down_ – _dehydration_ , said Gaius' voice in his mind, _possible concussion_ , a stern sort of disapproval in the imaginary words as though lack of water or the blow to the head were somehow his own fault – he considered the use of his magic.

Everything from a surreptitious 'slip' of his bonds, providing momentary relief, to calling a lightning-storm, complete with torrential downpour, scattering the knights and drenching Merlin in lovely cool water that he could guzzle by the buckets-ful – he dry-swallowed painfully, and swayed a bit in the saddle.

No. Can't. His situation was precarious, and not only physically. Anything that could be protested to Arthur as evil or corrupting, anything self-serving. Even anything surprisingly powerful, to startle Arthur from his misconception or make him fear Merlin's capabilities, start to doubt Merlin's motivations.

Okay, so here was the plan. Use his magic only as a very last resort, to keep himself alive, and hope and wait for an opportunity to speak to his prince.

The resolution held, through the shocked mutters rising above the sound of the mounts' hooves that told him – along with his sense of smell, a myriad mix of everything from fresh bread to pig manure – that they were passing through the lower town. Then the cobblestones under the horses' hooves.

And the king's voice. Merlin actually flinched when Uther called his son's name, wildly expecting something to follow like, _Archers, fire_!

But instead, there came the even murmur of Arthur's voice. He was concentrating so fully on trying to hear what the prince said, he startled like a maid at the touch of a hand on his knee.

"Easy, now."

Leon's voice. Instinctively he relaxed. Ever honorable, Leon would treat him with the consideration that he was still a human being who hadn't fought or hurt anyone, though he was arrested as a lawbreaker.

"Don't panic. Just – dismount. Off the horse, and – careful…"

Merlin leaned forward, swinging his right leg over the back of the saddle – awkwardly as his hands were still tied behind him - kicking his left foot free of the stirrup, then allowing his body to slide down. Further than he thought, and his feet and legs jarred at the impact; he staggered, spooking the horse a bit, but Leon steadied him.

He instinctively muttered, "Thanks," but all that came out was a meaningless grunt through his neckerchief gagging him.

Uther called out, "Take him to the cells immediately, Leon – and Brenner. Gaius, as we discussed?"

"Come along, then," Leon said, wrapping one big hand around Merlin's upper right arm. "Quietly is best."

Brenner was considerably less gentle, but the suggestion of his mentor accompanying them reassured Merlin. He stumbled, disoriented, across the cobblestones, something about the blindfold making him sure he was about to stub his toes or smash face-first into something solid, in spite of the fact that his rational mind knew the courtyard to be clear of such obstacles.

But when he tripped over a low horizontal impediment in the path, and the echoes of their footsteps and the knights' armor told him they'd entered a passage, he found himself resisting the dual tug on his arms, if slightly, slowing to be nearer the heavier shuffling footfalls behind them.

"Gaius?" he tried to ask, and flattered himself that the combination of vowels was distinguishable even around the material clogging his mouth.

"Let's go, sorcerer," Brenner demanded, yanking on him.

Gaius spoke firmly from behind them, "I would appreciate a pitcher of fresh water, when we reach the cell, Sir Brenner, if you please."

Brenner growled in his throat. On Merlin's left, Sir Leon cleared his, and answered politely, "Of course, Gaius. Anything else?"

"I will let you know," Gaius answered.

Merlin hoped the water was for him, but he suspected that the old physician had spoken merely to provide him the reassurance he'd sought. It occurred to him that the old man was in the same difficult position as Arthur, to some extent, maybe even in danger. An icy finger touched Merlin's heart, and he resolved, no matter what else, to convince everyone of Gaius' innocence. No matter what happened to Merlin, Uther could not suspect the truth about Gaius' knowledge and assistance; the old man would be sentenced right alongside Merlin, with less hope of a final escape.

He was taken down. Careful on the stairs, if only because they didn't want him accidentally knocking one of them into a fall. The light behind his eyelids faded. Further down. His brain tried to keep up with where they were – he hadn't thought they could go this far down, without ending up in someone else's much larger cave-prison.

It was cool, this low, and dank, smelling of mold and more faintly, of sweat and urine, and the smell scared him. He slowed again, wondering if he really was as stupid as Arthur no doubt believed, and maybe he should free himself now with magic, turn and run, and just keep running… Gaius laid a hand on his back between his shoulder-blades, and he kept putting one foot in front of the other.

He'd been too relieved at his mentor's presence to question it. But… he had no need of a physician's care… Merlin thought he might be shaking now, not from fear exactly, but from the tension of the unknown.

Metal shrieked unexpectedly, and he cringed as the nerves in his chest reacted.

"In you go," Leon said mildly. "Gaius, I'll be just here if you need me. Sir Brenner, if you would be so good as to fetch the water?"

Merlin stopped; his mind said _middle of the cell_ , though he might have been inches from a wall, for all he knew. He heard a liquid sound of water inside leather and turned toward it eagerly.

"First things first," Gaius' voice said, and Merlin felt the old man's hands – like Arthur's – gently loosening the bands around his head. He blinked dizzily in dim torchlight as his neckerchief fell to its customary place on his breastbone, twisted and damp.

"Sorry," he managed, meeting the gaze of the old man with his best, and well-used, _forgive-me_ look.

"What happened, Merlin?" the old man demanded.

"Saved Arthur – with magic," he answered, shrugging in an attempt to be cheerful. Not even Gaius knew how many times he might have honestly made that claim. "The knights saw."

"Why did you let them bring you back here?" Gaius said, wearily sorrowful.

"Arthur," he said shortly, his attention fixed on the water-skin in the physician's hands, more than the conversation. He'd just as soon not wait for fresh water and Sir Brenner, anyway. "Can't leave him. You know that."

"They'll make you leave him," the old man reminded him severely. "You know that."

"I'm not going anywhere," he said, more insistently, not looking away from the plump leather that promised moisture. He twitched; his hands were still tied behind his back, or he might have snatched the skin away from his mentor.

"You make it hard for anyone to help you, if you won't help yourself." Gaius waited for a moment, then sighed and lifted the water-skin. "Just a swallow, then."

Merlin gulped eagerly, ignoring the slightly stale taste of the water, but Gaius withdrew it too soon. He couldn't help a rather childish whine of protest, though he knew the wisdom of taking liquids slowly, after a period of deprivation. To distract himself for a few minutes until he could be allowed more, he glanced around.

This wasn't the dry, straw-strewn cell with the high narrow ventilation slit that looked to the side courtyard, but someplace – lower. Darker. Filthy. A single torch, in Leon's hand. And nowhere that Merlin would have been tempted to sit down, on the bare stone floor – no straw, no pallet. Not even a bucket, he noted, with an apprehensive sort of disgust.

"Arthur told me to run," he confided to Gaius in a low voice, stretching toward the mouthpiece of the water-skin again, as his empty stomach protested only a single swallow of water.

Gaius was watching him with apologetic scrutiny. "You should have, Merlin," he nearly whispered. "You should have."

He allowed Merlin access to the water again, and he drank slowly, so the physician would not have cause to deny him again.

"Arthur doesn't understand, about my magic. And he needs me to keep him safe – can't do that outside Camelot. And there's Mor-" He swayed, lightheaded; the words seemed to stick to his tongue and pile up together, instead of flowing smoothly. "Can't leave yet."

"If you stay, they'll kill you," Gaius told him speaking very slowly and softly.

From far away, he heard a noise of metal, the call of voices approaching that didn't seem to connect with him at all.

"I'm sorry, my boy, for this to happen. But remember, you're not alone. You must trust your friends… to do what's best… to let us help you…"

He swayed again, tipping against Gaius' hands, blinking in surprise at Leon's face just above his, as the light swirled in his vision and the whole cell revolved around him.

Oh. The water. The odd taste. _Gaius, as we discussed_.

There was no fear, but a sense of curiosity and the idea that this was ironic, somehow, but he couldn't remember…

"Wha' d'ja put in –"

He was on the floor, and the torchlight winked out.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"What the hell is going on here?" Arthur was too startled to be properly angry.

His chambers looked like they'd spent the better part of the morning being – there was no other word for it – ransacked.

Two guards – an older man with gray scruff on his chin and a blocky younger one with a shock of wheat-brown hair – straightened, startled themselves by their prince's abrupt and displeased appearance.

Sir Arrok sauntered around the corner from Arthur's bedchamber, hand casual on the hilt of his sword. "King's orders."

And Arthur had no second thoughts about directing his anger at the other knight. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" he snapped. "What is this?" He gestured at the mess around him. Things had been _broken_ , and _spilled_. His training armor scattered, and he was sure there would be more dents for Mer- for someone to hammer out.

"You have had a sorcerer in your employ for over three years, my lord," Arrok said, just short of insolent. "His Majesty ordered that a search be made for items of magic, to be sure that you weren't enchanted."

"Sorcerer!" Arthur scoffed. "One performance of a single spell and we're calling him a sorcerer!"

Arrok only lifted his eyebrows. Arthur rolled his eyes; yes, of course, that was enough to condemn anyone. Had been for years, hadn't it. He ground his teeth.

"To be sure," he gritted out. It was standard procedure, after all, when a person was accused of using magic, to search for evidence, to destroy the corruptive influence. "Carry on, then. Make yourselves at home. Pretend I'm not here."

Arrok gave him a half-bow, and turned negligently back to his lazy supervision of the other two. Arthur threw his gloves onto the table with rather more vehemence than necessary, and they slid off the other side into a piled jumble of clothing. He stalked to the window-well, where he rested sideways, putting one boot up and drawing his belt-knife to chip at the mortar.

Because it made his throat hurt, to look at the mess. To watch them upending drawers and shifting furniture, dismantling the bedding.

Because everywhere he looked, he could picture Merlin as he'd seen him a hundred times - busy cleaning or organizing, dusting scrubbing polishing straightening, looking oddly pleased with himself when he thought he'd done a good job and Arthur wasn't noticing. Because he didn't hesitate to scold his prince for carelessly ruining whatever task he'd spent the last few hours completing.

 _I've just done the floors. I'm spring-cleaning. What happened? I'm gone for a few days and…_

And now someone else would have to sort the mess. And surely whoever that was would put everything away wrong and Arthur would have to shout with irritation for every item to be found and brought to him and handed to him. And he would have the deep and petty annoyance – all the deeper for the realization of pettiness – of dealing with a servant who didn't know how he liked his bed and his meals and his bath and his armor and who no doubt would stammer and apologize while trying to learn all the details of Arthur's comfort. And because something about Merlin heightened Arthur's awareness of how he treated those around him, even menials, he'd feel guilty for being impatient and cross for feeling guilty and no doubt would unintentionally take his vexation out on that person and start the whole cycle over again.

And instead of having a companion who cared enough about him to learn an illegal magic spell – the idiot! – he'd have a _servant_ , again. A servant who would just do his job, complete the tasks required and _will that be all, sire_. A servant who would stand and watch in horror as Arthur was assassinated – sooner or later, at the going rate of threats to the heir - shed a tear, and find a new employer.

To Merlin, Arthur thought, this wasn't just a job, it was more of a calling. In caring for his prince, he actually cared for his prince. And Arthur had no hope that any other would do the same. And, dammit, he valued that. He needed it, he'd miss it.

"You won't find anything," he told the room at large.

Arrok shrugged, and the other two, after exchanging glances with each other, went back to their tasks.

Well. He hoped. Because if Merlin was willing to learn a spell to disarm an enemy and risk using it where the knights of the patrol could see, who was to say he wouldn't buy a charm to give Arthur a good night's sleep or an amulet of protection or… why didn't the idiot, if he was going to poke his nose into the hornet's nest of magic, learn a spell to help _himself_? To make _his_ job a little easier?

The door, which Arthur had left ajar upon his entrance, was pushed open, and Arthur had the gratification of seeing Gaius taken aback by the deliberate destruction of the prince's chambers. Drawing himself – and one eyebrow – upward, he found Arthur in the window and began making his way across the room, his round physician's case still over one shoulder.

"Gaius," Arthur said, as soon as the old man was close enough to hear him over the racket of the others, without him having to raise his voice. "They are looking for magical objects, presumably because my servant would be idiot enough to hide them _here_."

"Indeed." Gaius glanced around, laying his case on the newly-cleared surface of Arthur's writing-desk. "There are others doing the same in my chambers, and Merlin's room."

Arthur almost asked, would they find anything. But he decided, he didn't want to know. If they did, he'd hear about it soon enough. The trial.

The old man paused and gave Arthur a shrewd look. "You said, _idiot_."

"I – did." That was nothing new. Merlin was an idiot, no two ways about it.

"Not _sorcerer_. Not _traitor_."

Arthur held the keen gaze, uncertain what the physician was getting at.

Then a drawer of the wardrobe, tugged too hard, crashed from the guard's hand to the floor, interrupted them. Arthur almost laughed. Merlin had done the same thing with the same drawer, every day for almost a month before he learned that it stuck, and the trick to pulling it out quietly. Before he remembered – Merlin would never pull that drawer open again.

Unless… An idea sparked, but before it could catch, the door swung again – this time it was Arthur's father, dressed in black with his largest silver medallion pendant on his chest from a thick chain. Gloved hands on his hips as he surveyed the chaos with approval.

"Gaius!" Uther called. "I'm glad to see you're already here. What of the prisoner?" He began to pick his way toward them through the clutter on the floor.

"He has been sedated as you requested," Gaius stated, in his best dispassionate physician's voice.

Arthur stopped himself from gaping at the old man. As stern and gruff as Gaius could be, he never doubted the old man's affection for the young man whose time they shared between them. It was what had betrayed the truth of the goblin's possession to Arthur, a month and more ago.

But Gaius had also said, _My loyalty to your father and to Camelot comes first_ …

Was he so angry with Merlin for breaking the law and dabbling with forbidden magic, then? Or was sedation a kindness, under the circumstances?

"And my son?" Uther said, gesturing to Arthur. "What is your conclusion?"

"I beg your pardon?" Arthur said, at the same time as Gaius spoke; both older men ignored him.

"I have only just arrived, sire – perhaps you would be reassured to observe my examination."

"Carry on, then," Uther replied, turned to Arrok and the guards. "Have you found anything, anything at all?"

"No, sire, nothing," Arrok answered.

Gaius interjected, addressing Arthur, "Has Merlin ever given you anything, any object as a gift, has he ever left anything of his for you to keep in your chamber?"

Arthur swallowed. And said, evenly, "Merlin has never given me anything." Which was a lie, itself. Merlin gave so much of himself, every day. Some days, he'd given Arthur everything, and more.

"Very well." The king gave the three soldiers an imperious wave to leave the room, as Gaius glanced at Arthur.

"If you would be so kind, my lord, as to remove your clothing."

"What?" Arthur said, incredulous. Perhaps this was all some bizarrely realistic dream.

"Do as he says, Arthur," the king said over his shoulder, glancing around the obscured floor, toeing some of the mess incuriously.

"What on earth for?" Arthur said, pushing upright from the window-well as the guards and Arrok left the room, closing the door behind them.

"Arthur, do not make this difficult," Uther said. "That boy has been unsettlingly close to you for – what is it, three years now? We must be sure you are free of enchantments."

"You have got to be kidding me," Arthur said.

"Just do it, Arthur," Uther said, scowling.

Fine. Arthur began to strip his clothing off, rough and impatient – not for the humiliation, but for the frustration he often felt in dealing with his father. That he had to cajole and negotiate and choose his words and attitudes and moods if he wanted to be heard. Forget about _believed_ and _trusted_. By his own father.

At least Uther had the decency to look away, while Gaius peered into his eyes and ears and down his throat, had searched his scalp and examined every inch of skin, almost.

"Are you satisfied now?" Arthur demanded, going to his wardrobe. At least he'd get a change of clothes out of the whole ridiculous procedure.

"Well, Gaius?" Uther said, facing them again.

"There is no sign the prince has ingested or inhaled any substance of a magical nature; there are no marks on his skin to indicate the same," the physician pronounced. "He is completely free of enchantments."

"I told you so," Arthur muttered, feeling rebellious as a young boy, yanking his shirt over his head.

"I must say, sire," Gaius added, "the sort of enchantments that you might fear are very complex and require great power, and are also short-lived. It is extremely difficult to maintain such magic even over the course of a few days. Three years – impossible. And, if Merlin had enchanted the prince, there's no way he would have allowed Arthur to set him mucking out the stable last week."

The one word _allowed_ , caught Arthur's attention, before he was distracted by a nuance in the old man's tone, that his father seemed to have missed. Disapproval.

"Well, it did need doing," he said defensively, "and he was late three days in a row and he knows by now that if he doesn't want to get sent to the stables he has to be on time and – wait, why are we even discussing it? It's not like Merlin is _able_ to enchant anyone, right?"

Gaius didn't meet his eyes, busying himself with repacking his case. "No, sire, you're absolutely correct. Merlin couldn't enchant anyone."

"Well good, then." Uther sighed and nodded, relieved. "Arthur. I will see you in an hour for the trial."

"Yes, father." And the king was out the door.

Arthur retrieved his fine earth-colored soft-leather vest from the arm of one of the chairs standing crooked beside the table, watching Gaius latch his case very carefully. "Will you be at the trial."

"Sire?" Gaius adjusted the strap of the case over his shoulder.

"Merlin," Arthur said. The old man's eyebrow rose fractionally, but otherwise he betrayed no emotion. "Performed one spell, in defense of my life. Will you be at the trial, and what will you say, in testimony?"

Gaius folded his hands together, and they disappeared into the wide sleeves of his dark red robe. "My presence is required by the king. And I will of course speak the truth."

"Of course." Arthur held his gaze. Wondering what the truth was, to this old man. Because, five or six weeks ago, Gaius had stood and sworn, on consecutive days, that Merlin was a sorcerer twisted by magic – and that he was entirely innocent of those same charges.

Did Gaius play to Uther the way Arthur sometimes had to? And for what purpose? Who was he protecting, Merlin – or himself? And did Uther suspect him – or why else had he come to Arthur's room, stayed for that uncomfortably personal examination?

"Gaius," he said conversationally, focusing on the buttons of his vest. "You were with my father throughout the Purge – and before. You yourself were not unfamiliar with magical studies, were you."

"I have foresworn the practice," Gaius stated.

And – there the spark ignited. Arthur lifted his head, as the physician bowed and left the chamber.

Pardons had been given before, as reward for saving Arthur's life. The last one, a little over a fortnight ago, to a commoner who was uncommonly good with a sword, and uncommonly bad at holding his tongue before nobility.

And if Gaius could be trusted to remain in Camelot on the strength of his friendship and loyal service and the oath of repudiation of magic… why not Merlin.

Perhaps this could be put behind them, as certain incidents in the past, misunderstandings that had resulted in Merlin's arrest, but had cleared to leave things essentially unchanged.

He looked around the room, whirlwind-tossed. Perhaps… he dared to smile, dared to hope. Picturing his servant's heated exasperation, to see such a monumental task before him.

Maybe this time, things could go back to normal, too.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

His mother, Merlin reflected vaguely, was going to be furious.

 _Pick up your feet when you walk_ , she'd told him since he'd grown from a stumbling toddler to a tripping child. _Boot leather doesn't grow on trees_.

He smiled at the nonsensical bit of motherly advice and tried to obey, his head hanging low enough that he could watch the tips of his boots dragging over the stone floor, anticipate the funny little double-bump when they passed over an uneven joining.

Almost he laughed. Except, that hurt his chest. And then his head, throbbing dizzily as his mind tried so hard and so unsuccessfully to keep up with his body. And then his arms, which were currently supporting most of his weight – since the toes of his boots were dragging – his wrists still bound behind his back.

Again he made the effort to move his feet as though walking. Even though his mother wasn't here to know the difference. And if she was, she would be furious for another reason.

He hadn't kept his secret. Hadn't kept his promises to keep his secret.

And so they had done something with his magic. No, _to_ his magic. He could still sense it, but instinct said the use of it would take some effort, and probably more concentration than he was capable of, at the moment. Something that had to do with the way the skin on his chest stung and itched.

Merlin lifted his head a bit as his ears caught the sound of doors opening, heavy wooden doors, two at once to allow the three of them through. A dungeon-guard on each side, hoisting him by the arms, sweating – but no longer swearing, as they'd reached their destination, and their audience.

He saw the lowest two feet – and the two feet, chuckle-snigger- _ow_ – of a light crowd in the room to which he had been dragged. Skirts and boots. And when he was released, he dropped onto his knees before two other feet, in highly-intimidating and highly-polished black boots.

There was a voice that matched the boots. Intimidating and polished and black. He squinted up, saw a scar and a crown, and the vagueness cleared a bit. The king. He was on his knees before the king and the king was angry. The king was always angry, in his experience, but –

Oh, yeah. Magic.

This time, he'd confessed, he remembered and realized. And this time Arthur wouldn't blame it on an infatuation with Gwen and manhandle him–

Where was Arthur? He blinked and tried to make sense of the shifting gray shadows behind the angry king.

Someone else spoke, someone with a high thin voice he didn't recognize, so didn't bother trying to pay attention to.

Something slammed against the side of his face too fast and unexpected for him to retain balance, but he managed to twist and hit the floor on his shoulder, instead of his head.

Another voice – and that was Arthur's.

Merlin squirmed to right himself – to _see_ – and instead Gaius' face with its halo of somewhat disheveled white hair and the lines etched somewhat more deeply than he was used to seeing. The side of his face was throbbing, but he discovered he could hear Gaius quite clearly.

"My lord, I must protest. Clearly the sedative has not left the prisoner's system; it may be that he is incapable of comprehending or responding coherently."

The king spoke again, but Gaius was trying to lift Merlin, and Merlin was trying to cooperate because he feared the old man wasn't strong enough, and both of them would be embarrassed if someone else had to help and –

The physician's hand touched his chest roughly, pulling at his body to adjust it, and pain blossomed hotly. He bit back a yelp but couldn't help flinching away, even as he got his knees under him again.

Gaius sucked in a breath. Merlin felt the old man's fingers fumble at the laces of his shirt – felt cool air soothe the burning sensation on his skin – and then the old man was gone in a whirl of red robes. Merlin leaned forward, trying to rub or press his chest on his knees, whatever would ease that burning itch.

"Sire! You never said anything about resurrecting the more barbaric measures of the Purge to use against the boy! I agreed to sedate him so that –"

"You agreed to sedate him because you are loyal to your king and to the laws of Camelot," Uther drawled. "For the proximity of a trial, we required somewhat more – certain, assurances of the safety not only of myself, but of every citizen in the court room."

"Father, what does he –"

"Now, I've agreed to a trial - though the criminal has already made a confession, according to the testimonies of these several knights and the crown prince - if he is incapable of participating, I see no reason to delay the sentencing and its implementation."

Silence.

Then a hand touched Merlin's jaw, a gentle wrinkled hand, which encouraged him to straighten again. He saw a tiny vial held to his face with a small pair of tongs and smelled –

The sharp bitter odor – mustard? – punched him right in the nose and he recoiled sharply, eyes watering.

"I'm sorry my boy so sorry," Gaius breathed. "I never dreamed – do you know where you are?"

"Court… room?" Merlin repeated, blinking tears down his face and wishing he could rub all trace of that smell away from his nose.

"And do you know why you're here?"

"Trial." He looked at Gaius, who retreated – past Gaius at a stranger, who wore an odd white hood and veil, and gloves. After a moment of staring curiosity, he swung back around to try to find Arthur. Tell Arthur the truth, make him see, see magic. See Merlin.

But – how could he, with all these people? With Uther standing hands-on-hips between them. His vision swerved a bit to take in Morgana, perched on the great stone chair beside and a little behind the king's throne. Her expression a clear and cruel mix of fear and self-righteous satisfaction.

Gaius is a goblin.

Morgana is a traitor.

They'd never believe him. He searched for Arthur, didn't find him – where was the prince? Hadn't Merlin just heard him speak?

 _Slap_. He caught a swish of white material this time, the blow not so hard as to knock him over – or maybe he was more balanced because he was more alert.

"Answer the king, boy," the stranger said, in that high-pitched voice he couldn't place, before.

"Sorry?" he tried, looking up at the king, who bridled in the fury of offended majesty.

Slap. The material caught his eye – it watered madly again, and he couldn't even rub it. Though he did wonder, who was this stranger, who was allowed to wallop the prisoner on trial? "Ah – sorry, your majesty?"

"I said," Uther gritted out, lowering himself to the throne and leaning one elbow sideways on the arm, "how long have you been using magic?"

"I dunno," Merlin said, truthfully enough. He tried to think, how old was he this year? What month was it, and the calculation would be –

 _Slap_.

"Father." Arthur's voice again, protesting. "Is that really necessary? It can't be helping."

Where was his prince?

"When did you start using magic? Who taught you, or where did you learn it?"

"I… don't know… nobody… I didn't?" He thought about asking for a drink. A pillow and a nap. This wasn't going well, he knew, and he resolved to do better. Be honest, without implicating Gaius.

The king growled in dissatisfaction. The stranger adjusted the fit of his gloves and commented lightly, "All sorcerers are liars, sire – we won't get the truth voluntarily."

"Merlin couldn't lie to save his life." Arthur's voice rang out again. Was there a shadow stood behind the prince's chair, mirror-twin of Morgana's, but empty? Why wouldn't Arthur come nearer? "Clearly. Give him another chance, Father. He did that spell to protect me from attack."

Merlin smiled at his knees. That, he was proud of. Every time. Even prouder of Arthur again demonstrating his nobility before king and court.

But the king was speaking again. "Why did you come here?"

"Needed a job," he mumbled the easiest reason, the one that least involved his mentor in magic.

"Who are you working for?"

Merlin stared at the king, uncomprehending. Til his ear twisted viciously – he fought the grip, then froze to minimize the pain.

The stranger said, very kindly, "Answer his majesty."

"I work for Arthur," he managed. "For Gaius. For… you, sire."

"I meant with your sorcery," Uther hissed, shifting impatiently. "Stupid boy. Who is your master? Who gives you orders? Who do you pass information to?"

His whole head was throbbing now, mimicking the blow from the sword-hilt only yesterday, over and over. The pain in his ear was exquisite, and he couldn't move. "Please – only Arthur." And Gaius, but… "Only… only Arthur!"

The king made a noise and gesture of dissatisfaction, and the stranger released Merlin's ear with a final pinch and twist that had him cringing and trying to nurse the side of his head with a raised shoulder.

"Please, what do you want?" he said, a bit desperately. "What do you want to know what do you want me to say? Yes I used magic to save Arthur, it can be good it can be used for –"

"Treason! Silence!" the king spat. "Guards – take him back to his cell."

Frantically he tried to find Arthur in the shadows that ringed his vision, and couldn't, and the guards took his arms to drag him backward.

"No, wait!" he shouted, dread pounding lethargically through his skull. It wasn't enough, he wasn't finished, he had to explain to Arthur –

Everyone watched him, but no one _looked_ at him. Except Gaius, who made a single, small gesture that was almost lost in the folds of his robe. A shushing, quieting, calming gesture. Wait.

Okay. He trusted Gaius.

Merlin let the guards take him away.

 **A/N: Next time, Arthur's pov of the trial…**

 **Also, I feel like I should point out, I mentioned that this story began five minutes prior to the opening of ep. 3.5 "The Crystal Cave". And because Merlin didn't run, but stayed and fought, the events of that episode did not happen. Or, will not happen, whatever.** _ **This**_ **, instead. Cheers!**


	3. Trial and Error

**Chapter 3: Trial and Error**

Arthur leaned on the back of his great chair, behind and beside his father, as each of the knights of the patrol were questioned.

That went well, he thought, Leon's calm offset Arrok's fanaticism, and no one had seen Merlin do more than the single spell to disarm the last bandit.

Gaius was politely obtuse. Repeating, Arthur assumed, what he had no doubt told Uther when Arrok had first reported. _No, your highness, I really couldn't say. I am often unaware of how or where he spends his free time. He did not inform me of any intention to protect this patrol using magic._ He neither championed nor denounced Merlin, and it left Arthur wondering. It wasn't like Gaius to be satisfied with his opinion or testimony overlooked.

None of the servants had come forward. Arthur wasn't surprised. Merlin was universally liked among the staff, and of course he wouldn't be practicing disarming people in the citadel corridors to be observed, after all.

Morgana said, _I am as shocked as you_ , my lord. Which was the truth. Morgana also said, _It grieves me that someone so close to us would turn to the evil of sorcery, for any reason_. Which was a lie, though Uther accepted his ward's words with diffidence.

But Arthur had no time to think about that before his father was questioning _him_.

 _No, I have never seen Merlin do magic. Up until yesterday, I would have thought him incapable of it, morally and actually._

Stark truth. No speculation, no thinking, no attention paid to any memories that nudged each other in his subconscious. Why would he want to know anything incriminating, anyway? Why allow suspicions, which he then would be honor-bound to mention, to the court and in a trial? Merlin was strange; he'd always been satisfied to leave it at that.

"Bring the prisoner in," Uther called, and the guard at the door moved to open it.

Arthur leaned on the high back of his chair, using it for the comfort of stability, as well as a prop to perpetuate the image of calm nonchalance. It had happened before, his servant hauled before the king for questioning – Merlin was bait for trouble – shoved roughly, shirt and jacket disarranged, his expression a mix of apprehension and defiant innocence.

The one spell, used with idiotic innocent reason, to protect his prince. Pardoned, maybe reluctantly, but the vow to renounce magic would seal the deal – and perhaps Arthur would be allowed to set the punishment, even, rather than Uther. Stocks and stables, then, rather than –

A stranger strode through the doors, dressed in a long hooded white robe over the lightest shirt-vest-trousers Arthur had ever seen. Even his gloves and boot-leather was bleached. But there was a veil, that covered the stranger's face from nose to neck, betraying only dark eyes and a few wisps of plain-brown hair on his brow.

"My lord," the stranger said, bowing.

"Aerldan," Uther said, nodding.

Arthur's attention was caught by two things – his father's evident familiarity with this man, and Gaius' reaction of barely-smothered outrage – before he focused on the guards and their prisoner.

His thin form hung awkwardly between them, feet dragging and head down. Jacket and neckerchief and belt all missing, his shirt and trousers already filthy.

He looked a guilty criminal, and Arthur bridled, pressing forward against the solid block of his chair, biting his lip. Carefully, carefully. If he was going to be allowed to keep Merlin…

The guards deposited Merlin on his knees in the center of the room, beside the white-robed stranger and before the king. Spectators all whispered and craned and for a single black instant Arthur hated them all. Except for Gwen, wringing her hands surreptitiously, and Morgana, kicking one foot as she affected to lounge in her own chair, as she did when she was impatient.

"Merlin of Ealdor," Uther said, "you have been found guilty of using magic by these several witnesses standing here now, and by your own admission. You will pay for your crime with your life, but you have opportunity now to speak for yourself." His voice dripped disdain like acid all over Arthur's hopes, eating holes into his plans like rust.

Merlin lifted his head, his expression perfectly blank. Arthur rapped his knee on the chair in an instinctive step forward; the sting reminded him. Above all else, he must be free and unsuspected, if he was going to accomplish Merlin's freedom at the best opportunity. One way or another.

 _Tell them_ , he pleaded silently with the boy. _Tell them, I didn't do anything wrong_.

Merlin said nothing. Uther exchanged a glance with the white-robed stranger, who said in a thin, high voice, "You see, my lord, as I said." Then he took a step, and slapped Merlin so hard he tumbled sideways to the ground.

Arthur gripped the back of the chair. "Father, corporal punishment is usually reserved for after the sentence has been passed, and is carried out by the offender's master," he reminded his father. "Not during the trial, and…" By whoever _that_ is.

"When sorcery is involved, Arthur, extra measures must be taken," Uther said over his shoulder.

Gaius brushed past the stranger with a glare, to kneel over Merlin, trying to help him up. Arthur wished he was free to do the same; but his hands were tied just as surely as Merlin's were. "My lord, I must protest. Clearly the sedative has not left the prisoner's system; it may be that he is incapable of comprehending or responding coherently."

As the physician tried to help an awkwardly-cooperative Merlin, the boy hissed and twisted back as though the old man's touch hurt, almost unbalancing himself again. Gaius' bulk blocked Arthur's view, but whatever he'd discovered, it made him angry, and he stood to confront the king.

"Sire! You never said anything about resurrecting the more barbaric measures of the Purge to use against the boy! I agreed to sedate him so that –"

Arthur looked immediately at Merlin – there were spots on the front of his red shirt, now, like water droplets or – possibly the stranger had hit Merlin hard enough to make his nose bleed? But there wasn't any blood on his face… Then Arthur's brain caught up with Gaius' words. _Barbaric measures_.

"Father," he said. "What does he –"

"Now," the king snapped, "I've agreed to a trial - though the criminal has already made a confession, according to the testimonies of these several knights and the crown prince - if he is incapable of participating, I see no reason to delay the sentencing and its implementation."

Gaius straightened fractionally, his expression very nearly a glower, if it had been aimed at anyone but the king. But instead of answering, he simply opened and reached into his case, bringing out a tiny vial attached to a long handle, and pinched off the wax seal. He reached to support Merlin's head while he administered the smelling salts.

Merlin flinched back, eyes wide in shock, one cheek reddened from the earlier blow. He looked for the first time beyond the three men nearest him, but his gaze didn't seem to light on anyone in particular.

"Now," the king spoke into the silence with assured authority. "One of the most important questions we need answered today is, how long have you been using magic?"

Merlin could not even walk properly, and they expected him to be able to speak properly? Arthur was convinced that his clumsy, irreverent servant had never done either yet in his life. He bit his tongue as the stranger in white – obscenely casual, and bold enough to strike Merlin without explicit order – slapped his servant three more times.

Not hard. But unsettlingly _eager_. And the third time Arthur couldn't help but protest. " _Father_."

Uther swung around to look at him, his expression closed and impatient; Arthur's heart beat hard, his mouth dry. They had an audience, he had to remember that. Nothing to undermine the king's authority, or anything he proposed would be summarily rejected, without regard to its objective merits.

He added more coolly, "Is that really necessary? It can't be helping."

Uther didn't respond, turned back to confront not the white-robed stranger who had instigated the mild bit of violence in his court chamber, but Merlin, who was still looked around himself dazedly.

For what? Arthur wondered. A friendly face? A bit of sympathy? He wanted to give it, to step forward, but. Would that encourage Merlin's stubborn decision to stay, to see this through? Perhaps if he felt a bit more despair at the trial's outcome, he would be ready and willing to escape when the time came.

Uther fired off a handful of questions, and Arthur gritted his teeth. As idiotic and evasive as Merlin's answers and excuses could be, it should have been obvious to everyone in the room that the boy's confusion was genuine.

The stranger made a snide remark about the veracity of magic-users, and Arthur bristled. Again, one rash use of a single – defensive – spell, and Merlin was painted with the same brush as the likes of Morgause, who'd probably been wallowing daily in serious sorcery since childhood.

He was speaking again before he knew it. "Merlin couldn't lie to save his life."

Again he found himself the center of attention. His father – patience wearing thin. Morgana – white with fury and only just managing to bite her tongue, herself. Gwen troubled, Gaius stern.

 _No. Don't encourage him._

"Clearly," Arthur drawled sarcastically, waving a hand at the boy crouched on the floor. Filthy, disoriented, confused, in no condition to formulate a false story. Okay, time for the idea of pardoning an isolated mistake. "Give him another chance, Father. He did that spell to protect me from attack. I don't believe Merlin is to blame for this."

"You could be right, Arthur," Uther said. "If the boy is afflicted mentally, perhaps others have encouraged him in the use of sorcery."

From the side of the room Gaius scowled, and Arthur thought, not a chance. The old man would have discouraged Merlin from law-breaking, had he known Merlin's curiosity and idiotic daring had turned in that direction. He probably understood that process of corruption better than most.

"So who sent you?" Uther said, again addressing Merlin. "Why did you agree to come to Camelot?"

"Needed a job," Merlin mumbled.

As one, the members of the court attending the trial took a step back, looking at each other uneasily. Was this a greater, darker confession? Arthur desperately wanted to take the role of questioner – Merlin's habitual lack of coherency was going to – no, that wouldn't help. If Uther wouldn't agree to letting Merlin stay, pardoned, then Arthur needed Merlin to agree to leave.

"Who are you working for, then?" Uther demanded.

Merlin stared, uncomprehending, which earned him another slap from the stranger. Then he began to babble. Arthur's name, and Gaius' name, repeating them even after Uther tried to narrow the question to the use of magic.

Oh, for the love of Camelot. Arthur kept his expression dispassionate by squeezing his mother's ring on the first finger of his hand almost hard enough to make it an oval.

And then Uther had heard enough – _it can be good_ shut his ears with a finality that Arthur could _see_ in the set of his father's shoulders, and it made him sick. The king shouted for the guards; Arthur came around his chair but the two soldiers were not unduly rough, and Merlin didn't exactly struggle. He seemed resigned, even to the point of relaxing in their grip, as they dragged him from the room.

For a moment, everyone hesitated nervously. Then Uther, in lieu of a mass-dismissal, merely turned to the white-cloaked stranger to exchange a few words in confidence. After a moment, Gaius joined them – and his father showed neither protest nor surprise.

Morgana slipped from her chair and rounded it – heading for the doorway behind Arthur, he thought, with Gwen a quiet few steps behind. But then she stopped only inches from him, as the other spectators continued to drift from the room.

"How long?" she said, her voice low but steely. "How long has he been doing magic? How long has he known he was capable of using magic? He said he didn't know, but that's ridiculous, he has to know, he _chose_ it."

"Morgana," he said. "This is Merlin we're talking about. What are you afraid of? Like I said, one spell, one time. He can't have been using it for long, he hasn't changed a bit."

She shuddered. "Yes, but _why_?" she persisted. " _What_ made him decide this? Why would he _try_ to use magic?"

"Probably because he's useless with a sword, and goes on patrol as often as I do," Arthur said.

"Then it's your fault, isn't it?" she said, with such venom that he was startled, as was Gwen. Immediately she shifted expression to a consoling smile. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean that. I'm just – in shock, I expect."

"Yes, we all are… Look, Morgana, I must speak to Father, will you excuse me?"

She huffed and twitched her shoulders, but didn't stop him from moving past her toward his father. Gaius had already taken his leave – he glimpsed the old man's rounded shoulders and physician's case disappearing through the doors – and it looked like the stranger was on the verge of the same.

"Father," Arthur said, striding forward so that it would be rude for the stranger to turn away without introduction. "Who is this our guest? We've not met."

"Aerldan," Uther said. "My son, Prince Arthur. The prisoner was his servant."

"Ah," the stranger breathed, behind his white veil. He was about Arthur's height, but bowed a few inches lower, by habit or necessity.

"Arthur, this is Aerldan; I don't think you've had occasion to meet him, it is many years since we required his services. He is a skilled questioner."

"Questioner." Arthur didn't offer to touch the man's hand. The hand that had struck Merlin four times. "I was curious what Gaius meant about employing barbaric measures?"

"It is merely a mark drawn to ensure that the user is separated from the magic," the stranger assured him. "For his own safety as well as ours – he is neither tempted nor able to strike out at those around him."

"Indeed," Uther agreed complacently.

That didn't sound… barbaric. Something to ask Gaius about later, he thought. "Well, I hope your task will not prove too strenuous –" _questioner?_ – "I'm sure Merlin has nothing to hide."

"You may be right," Aerldan returned softly. "If not… well, a sorcerer does sometimes require a little gentle persuasion."

Arthur's skin crawled. He couldn't quite take the man's words at face value. "Perhaps I may attend you? In my experience, it can be more difficult to get him to shut up than to talk."

The hood shifted toward the king. Who said, "Not this time, Arthur. Let Aerldan do the job I'm paying him for, you have more pressing duties claiming your time. Don't you."

"Father, my concern is –" He was silenced by his father's upraised hand.

"Aerldan, I won't keep you. I expect your initial report by sundown tonight."

"My lord." The questioner nodded, bowed still further, and turned to glide out the open doorway where the guards had dragged Merlin.

"Father –" Arthur began again.

"Leprosy," Uther said. Arthur stared at him, uncomprehending, and he explained, "Aerldan. The disease does not appear to be contagious, only slowly degenerative. It does not hinder his work and –" the king appeared to consider, as if a new idea had occurred to him. "Quite possibly, he is no longer suited for or capable of performing other work, anyway."

"Father," Arthur said firmly, determinedly. "I am concerned that Merlin remain unharmed. It was a single transgression, and of a defensive nature, you might even say heroic." Uther snorted, and Arthur thought, _okay, that's stretching it a bit far_. "I wanted to offer a suggestion. That he be granted a pardon for his mistake, serve some lesser punishment, and take an oath renouncing the use of magic. That way he can–"

"I have remarked upon," his father said slowly, thoughtfully, "that boy's unusual concern for you. Now I suspect the feeling is reciprocated, and I must say I'm not happy with the situation. What is it about him that makes you so eager to champion him?"

Oh, what thin ice.

"Merlin is a good servant –" he began.

"And yet I've heard you complain about him on many occasions," Uther pointed out.

"True, father, but if I were seriously displeased, I would have been rid of him long ago," Arthur said. "It's just that – we understand each other. Often he anticipates my needs and he knows the way I like things and –" spoiled, selfish prince – "it would be a dreadful bore to have to start all over again with someone new, after all this time."

"The odds are high it would be someone better," Uther pointed out with amusement. "Someone respectful, who knows their place."

 _Someone like that would not be_ better, Arthur thought.

"I grant you he's not a perfect servant. But he is mine, now. I feel quite like…" Something the king would understand, appreciate, agree with… "If he was my horse, or one of the dogs, that required extra handling to be a decently useful animal, I would feel proud of the effort and would not be happy to have it wasted."

"I see…" Uther mused. "You're fond of him."

A safe admission? "Yes," Arthur said.

"Well. As long as your servant cooperates with Aerldan, and reveals no further treachery, I see no reason why your suggestion cannot be given serious consideration."

Arthur couldn't help – though he tried to hide – a sigh of relief. "Thank you, Father. If you will excuse me, I'd like to see that the damage done by this morning's searches –" both in his chambers and the physician's quarters, that would give him an excuse to talk to Gaius – "has been properly cleaned."

"By all means. See you dinner," his father answered.

Something made him look back, just as he reached the door. And something about his father's expression – still _watching_ Arthur – unsettled him.

But it was a long game he was playing, and for Merlin's life. Safe a while longer, he thought. Good enough for now.

He hoped Merlin was not being too difficult.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*… …..*…..

Merlin felt no fear, as the guards shackled him to a chair in the middle of the room. Deep in the dungeons, the walls thick stone rather than iron bars. Bright with torchlight. No imminent threat.

Which was good, because he was finding it difficult to focus on anything but the unnerving itch of his chest. A rash, maybe? And how did it relate to the block he felt on his magic, as if a shield had been erected between him and it, or… something. His chin down, he could see that his shirt had small, irregular stains darkening the red fabric – perhaps something noxious had dripped on him in his previous cell?

"Can I have my hands for just one moment," he said pleadingly – again – to one of the guards, who tightened the buckle of the strap binding his left wrist to the arm of the chair. "Just one hand, just to see? Only it _itches_!"

They were probably paid to pretend they were deaf. Maybe they were.

Maybe they wished they were.

For a disconcerted moment he examined the chair he was sat in. Thick and sturdy, bolted to the stone floor, the arms were curiously long – past his fingertips as his elbows brushed the back of the chair, which rose to neck-height. His ankles had been shackled to the legs of the chair, also.

And there was a drain in the floor. A hole to who-knows-where, covered by an iron grate. Built into the room.

He shivered – then leaned forward to try to rub his chest on his knees again.

"You were fortunate," someone said, in a voice that was high-pitched, but still masculine. Merlin lifted his head to look blankly at the white-cloaked stranger. Who added, pointing a gloved forefinger at Merlin's chest, "You were sedated when I did that."

"What is it?" Merlin couldn't help asking.

"A rune of containment." The stranger turned to a small table at the side of the room, coupled with a chair padded by a plump cushion, set on a sort of platform a few inches higher than the floor. "Can you still feel your magic?"

"Yes, but –"

"But you can't use it." The hooded head nodded, as the stranger proceeded to set out parchment, inkwell, and two quills, next to a lumpy roll of dark-dyed cotton, from some container beside him Merlin couldn't see. "Interesting."

"What is? And who are you?" The trial hadn't gone well; was he to be given a second chance? If he could just talk to Arthur – or Gaius, he was certain his old mentor had a plan, and a good one, he didn't want to foul that up. Or incriminate him, at all.

"If you can still feel your magic through the block, it means you're quite strong," the stranger said, dipping his quill into ink and making a scratchy note at the top of the page. "It means you've likely studied more and done more than the single spell you're on trial for, hm?" The hood turned a bit, ducked a bit in a fondly scolding motion.

Merlin didn't answer. It was Arthur he was meant to be confessing to. He had no illusions about Uther pardoning him, not after the way the trail had gone – escape would probably be necessary at some point, but… Arthur. Then, where would Merlin go, what would he do? Arthur still needed him, still needed to understand.

"So. Merlin of Ealdor. That's outside Uther's borders, isn't it? And you've been in Camelot, three and a half years, approximately? Were you aware of your ability to do magic when you came here?"

He still didn't answer.

The white-robed figure shifted sideways on the chair to face him, and sighed. "This doesn't have to be difficult, you know," he said. "The truth is easy enough, isn't it? If you're innocent."

For a moment they stared at each other, Merlin into the shaded recess under the hood and above the veil, and the other back at him.

Then the stranger put down his quill and stood again, casually picking up what Merlin took to be a slender rod from the far side of the table. But as he strolled to circumnavigate the room, he bent it without breaking it – a length of stiffly braided leather, then, not wood or metal, and not pliable like a whip, just over two feet long, with a thicker piece like a handle on one end.

"You must pretend that I am the king," the stranger said, in an unsettlingly earnest way. "The king has certain questions, and the king will receive answers, sooner or later."

Merlin's heart was in his throat. "I want to talk to Arthur," he said, keeping his voice calm with an effort.

 _Slam_. The leather rod came down on his right forearm, near his elbow on the meat of his muscle. Merlin jerked, squeezing his eyes shut against the initial burst of pain; it faded quickly to the dull throb of bruising. Hells, that was unpleasant.

"You should use a title or term of respect," the stranger informed him, pointing the leather rod at him. "Regardless, his presence is irrelevant. Two's company, and three's a crowd, no?"

Merlin twisted to see that the two guards still stood on the inside of the door. He wondered who, exactly, they were guarding, and what from.

"You and I, we can be down here for weeks and weeks, or just a few hours. I promise I will not lie to you, and I ask only that you return the courtesy. That's not hard, is it?"

Merlin dared, "Are you going to kill me?"

"Tsk. Of course not. What kind of brute do you take me for. I am a questioner, not an executioner." The stranger ambled behind him, where he could not see him.

Merlin's mouth was dry; licking his lips did no good. "Are you going to hurt me?"

 _Swoop_. And the stranger's hood and glittering eyes were right over his left shoulder. His high-pitched voice was breathless. "Only if you lie."

The threat hung in the air between them. Merlin couldn't help squirming. He really wasn't that good of a liar – and sometimes no one believed him when he told the truth. Gingerly he felt for the shield over his magic, which seemed to quiver, a bit, though it didn't give, and it itched.

The stranger retreated a step or two. "Perhaps we should start with your confession," he offered genially. "You admitted to disarming an attacker with magic. I want to know, which spell did you use? Where did you learn it, and how long did it take you to master it effectively?"

"I didn't use one," Merlin said. "I just, moved the sword."

"No incantation," the stranger said evenly. "Not spoken, not silently repeated in your head."

"No, I –"

The white cloak furled as the questioner rounded on him, bringing the leather rod down on Merlin's arm with lightning speed and precision. Again, not _hard_ , but enough to catch Merlin's breath in his throat and cause his nerves and muscles to contract in one great helpless cringe. Enough to leave a bruise.

And it occurred to him, the man had struck exactly where and how hard he meant to. Just next to the other blow. Merlin couldn't help an instinctive calculation of how many times he could be struck before the questioner ran out of unmarked flesh. And began to hit the bruises.

"That was a lie," the man breathed pleasantly. "Such a thing is impossible."

"Improbable, but not impossible," Merlin argued, and –

 _Slap_. The glove back-handed him across the mouth, and this time he tasted blood. "Have you forgotten so soon?" the stranger mourned. "I said, you must pretend I am the king. That means respect, young man, at all times. Is that understood?"

Merlin bit his tongue. Half a dozen sarcastic retorts jumped into his mind. Foolish, though, to provoke the man unnecessarily. Pride was all well and good, but he had to keep his eyes on his goal. Arthur – and magic.

"If I could just talk to the prince," he pleaded, licking the blood away from the stinging split in his lower lip.

"I could carry the request to His Majesty," the stranger suggested, "along with a full confession."

"Fine. I used _fleogan_ which I found in an old book in the library and I practiced it three days last week alone in the armory when I was supposed to be polishing the prince's armor. Other than that, no other magic, and no one else knows."

Silence. For a moment, as the stranger stood with his back to Merlin, obscured head to heels by the cloak. Then his shoulders heaved in a sigh. "Merlin… Merlin, Merlin. You're a handsome boy. And, possibly, an intelligent one. Such a shame."

Merlin shivered.

The stranger moved back to the little platform, the table and chair, hands raised to loose the clasp of his cloak. Removing it, he folded it meticulously, then untied the veil, which went the whole way round his head, covering even his neck. And for good reason – Merlin saw that his brown hair was wispy and patchy, showing unhealthy scalp and raised sores, white on top with a crimson ring around the base. The man turned, and Merlin flinched back – more such sores deformed his face, particularly nose and lips.

"They said you had some training with the court physician," the stranger said, giving attention to his gloves. Merlin, horrified, wanted to look away – and couldn't. "You'll recognize this particular strain of leprosy, then, perhaps." The gloves came off, showing fingers discolored, bandaged – even amputated. "I have lost most of the feeling in both of my hands, except for right here, and right here." He touched the heel of one hand, and the tip of the other pinkie finger. "Oddly enough. What it means for me and my work, is that I often have to forego force, in favor of finesse."

He turned his back on Merlin again, to bring out a black leather bag Merlin hadn't noticed before. A pair of black gloves replaced the white ones, and a larger garment – also in black – was slipped over his head as a smock, covering his other clothes. Not unlike the aprons Gaius had worn before when handling multiple cases at once in a makeshift infirmary, during times of plague or battle.

"What it means for you," he added, beginning to unroll the lumpy black cloth on the tabletop, revealing delicate silver instruments that Merlin couldn't see clearly, and which sent a wash of cold sweat down his body. "Is that your lies are going to become much more painful. And I counted – half a dozen, was it? lies in your previous statement."

He picked up one of the instruments, a square frame which seemed to include a series of clamps, and advanced on Merlin, who bucked and squirmed and scratched at both the arms of the chair and the shield over his magic – what was he going to do? he couldn't use it anyway except in an all-or-nothing attempt to escape. When the stranger bent over him, Merlin smelled the sickening odor of decay.

But his eyes were bright. "And, you simply do not lie to your king."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The afternoon was interminable. Arthur avoided his chambers, the mess and the memories – and it seemed Gaius was doing the same.

He hadn't thought the old man to possess such a strong talent for making himself scarce. _Out on his rounds, he said_ , one door-guard informed Arthur. And the guard at the courtyard portcullis said, _Needed herbs from the forest, he told me_.

Guinevere and Morgana kept to her quarters.

Arthur ended up by himself on the training field with a dummy, while other knights and soldiers kept their distance. Nothing wrong with that. Arthur often came here if he found himself with time on his hands or a problem on his mind. He wasn't expected to participate with the others unless scheduled to do so, and no one expected to participate with him unless specifically requested.

And, as he knocked the last of the straw stuffing from the dummy, he finally persuaded himself that Merlin must surely have cleared himself – convinced anyone and everyone of his innocence in the hours that had passed after the trial –

He'd done it many times with Arthur after all, hadn't he?

And he hadn't come to find Arthur on the field because first he'd gone to the prince's quarters – or Gaius', or his own – and had gotten sidetracked in cleaning and organizing. Yes of course that was what had happened, he'd open the door and Merlin would be in an amusingly awkward position and Arthur would tease him and embarrass him. And he'd retort with some unusual insult or hypothesis about Arthur's level of concern, before helping Arthur from his armor and into a hot bath. And they'd talk a bit and come up with some excuse for Arthur to avoid dining with his father and Arthur would look sternly at him and say something about the punishment Merlin's stupidity had earned him once again, and Merlin would whine and complain and Arthur would double it before dismissing him early which was really a backwards way of giving him the night off, after everything he'd been through.

But.

When Arthur slammed through his door, sword-belt in one hand and gloves in the other, the _M_ of his servant's name already formed on his lips, it was a short, compact man with rather fuzzy brown hair who turned from lighting the last candle on the side-board stand. He bowed perfunctorily as Arthur stared.

"My lord. Your bath is ready, and I've taken the liberty of laying out a suitable outfit of clothing for dinner with your father the king and –"

"Out." Arthur moved away from the door he fully intended to slam again, behind the man.

"I beg your pardon, sire?" Fuzzy eyebrows lifted in surprise.

"You heard me. I don't require your services tonight. At all. _Out_."

It helped the slam the door, probably startling the servant and the guard at the end of the hall, but he didn't care. It helped also to chuck the various pieces of his armor haphazardly around the room – because probably Merlin wouldn't have to clear it up, or hammer out the dents – growling with frustration at the bits that did need an extra pair of hands before he simply picked up the knife he'd intended to give Morgana as a birthday present next week and sliced through the leather straps.

But not enough.

He washed the sweat and dust of the training field from his body, but he didn't relax in the tub or enjoy the heat or the scent or the friction of scrubbing one bit. He put on the clothes laid out for him by the replacement servant and prepared himself for an evening of biting his tongue more often than the food on his plate.

For the first time in a long time, he arrived for dinner before his father. He loitered around the table, getting in the way of the kitchen attendants with their platters of food. Wondering if this impatience was going to work against him with his father.

As it had before. He keenly remembered his father crushing a delicate, wilting plant in his gloved fist, dropping it to the floor outside Arthur's cell, condemning an innocent man – this same man, though not entirely innocent anymore – to a horrible death, merely to teach Arthur a lesson.

Don't cross the king. Or his law, written or spoken.

"Arthur," his father greeted, striding into the room. "You're here early."

 _What of Merlin? What lengths is this questioner of yours allowed to go to? What is taking so damn long?_

"I was hungry." He managed an even tone, and a shrug, before he took his place at Uther's right.

Guinevere was serving – her eyes reddened and downcast and refusing to meet his glance – along with another girl he vaguely recognized from the kitchen.

Uther was unperturbed, questioning Arthur about the rest of the patrol and attack, either deliberately ignoring or honestly oblivious to Arthur's black mood.

Morgana was on edge too, though trying her hardest not to show it.

It felt, incongruously enough, something like a hunt. Rush in carelessly and spook the prey and go home empty-handed. Too cautious and slow, and the same result. He had to move, figuratively speaking, as fast as silence and effective stealth would allow.

Although – he found an appropriate grin at something Morgana said – he could imagine his father's reaction to being compared to _prey_.

Arthur had been done for a quarter of an hour, when Sir Brenner, his long black hair combed back from his face and tied with a bit of string behind his head, appeared at the door. The knight advanced a respectful but unobtrusive three steps into the room, holding a folded scrap of parchment for the king's attention and his own excuse.

"Ah," Uther said, motioning him forward. "Yes, you may interrupt."

Arthur sat back, Morgana leaned forward, and Uther read the note without any indication of sharing the information. It could have been about anything. Except, none of the knights made a habit of disrupting the king's meal-time. And the only abnormal situation was Merlin's.

"Tell him until midnight," Uther said to Brenner, leaning forward to light the rolled message in one of the table-candles, letting it burn and smolder on a discarded dish between himself and Arthur. "And make sure a guest chamber is prepared for him."

Not for Merlin. For Aerldan the questioner, then. Guest chamber – until midnight. A time limit, Arthur guessed, on the day's task.

 _What the hell was taking so long?_

Arthur could not look away from the rippling flame, the page charring white to black and then crumbling ash.

"Is this about Merlin?" he said.

"Don't worry about it, Arthur," his father said dismissively. "Let Aerldan handle it, he knows what he's doing."

"He's _my_ servant," Arthur said. Part of him said, _Stop talking,_ now. Most of him watched the parchment twist and shrivel.

"Perhaps not for much longer." The king was bored with the topic already.

Arthur glanced up at Morgana, who was watching the paper also, with fascinated revulsion. She met his eyes, and there was a spark there of a feeling that he didn't recognize, so out of place it was.

"Perhaps I should pay Aerldan a visit," Arthur said, turning back to his father. "If he is finding Merlin difficult, I could –"

"No, Arthur, you're not to interrupt them." Uther turned back to sawing hunks off his leg of lamb.

"But I could –"

"No." The king's voice was sharp and regal. "Do I have to make it an order? You have no business in the dungeon-level, and I will so inform the guards. It's out of your hands, Arthur." His tone softened infinitesimally. "Let it go."

Arthur gritted his teeth. Once upon a time, the witchfinder had tortured Gaius until he claimed planted evidence for his own, responsibility for drug-induced hallucinations – making his victim suffer until the old man admitted the lie for truth, simply to bring relief from the pain. Merlin, Arthur thought, would not do the same. He would hold to the truth, whether Aerldan merely disbelieved him or tried to force a false confession.

Midnight. Three and a half more hours.

"Yes, father," Arthur said stonily.


	4. Willing and Able

**Chapter 4: Willing and Able**

Arthur made his way from the private dining chamber to the physician's quarters. Slowly, and deliberately, and unseen.

It was a game he'd played with Morgana, when he was a boy - or against, rather. Moving about the citadel from one point to another, without being seen. Passing courtiers or hurrying servants or stationary guards or unexpected knights. If you were seen, you had to go back to your starting point and begin again.

Morgana, hm. He mused a bit to himself as he circled a column to avoid two off-duty guards. He would have expected her to be frothing at the mouth, denouncing Uther and Aerldan as heartless and unjust, demanding Merlin's freedom – first from Uther, publically, then from him, privately. She felt strongly about the subject, he could tell from those flashes of feeling that escaped her façade of calm, but otherwise she simply ignored the situation.

Something to think about later, perhaps.

Looking back, he could see that the game had two very real and beneficial effects. Getting good at this game as a child in citadel corridors, prowling unseen and unheard, avoiding notice, was a skill that made him also a very good hunter, whether he was after dangerous criminals or just dinner. The other was, he knew the citadel like the back of his hand - every alcove, every shadowed doorway, the routes favored by the servants as shortcuts at different times of day, the corners where guards could be distracted by a trick of sound and echo.

Tonight, it served two purposes as well. First, to get him to Gaius with no one the wiser that the prisoner's two masters were meeting in private; there were guards and knights both who took their loyalty to their king rather than his heir just that seriously. Normally he didn't grudge them that – much – it kept him accountable for his behavior, if anything could be observed and reported back to his father. It was part of a king's training, wasn't it – the awareness that someone was always looking, and anything could become gossip, and a king's rule rests on the confidence of his people. And when he was king, he rather hoped his guards would keep him aware of what was going on in his own home.

Second, it used up the time until midnight, and gave Arthur a chance to think.

Aerldan did not have the authority to execute Merlin. Only Uther could give that order – and if that was what he decided, it would be a spectacle when all the people could attend. Daylight hours – noon or just before sundown, he thought he could safely guess, from the few times he'd witnessed an execution. So Merlin's life wasn't in danger – Aerldan had been employed by Uther before, and was evidently thought highly of; he wouldn't lose Merlin through carelessness.

Beyond that, to the specifics of questioning, Arthur couldn't bear to think. That sort of speculative fear – what could be happening, what might have already happened – could cripple a warrior as surely as an ill-placed blow. He'd been taught to deal with the known, and not let his imagination run wild.

Firstly, he needed to be sure that Merlin was able and willing to escape. Which meant getting into the dungeons to see him. And that probably wouldn't happen until after Aerldan was through with Merlin at midnight. Arthur could persuade a few guards, probably, to let him have a private moment with his servant. Aerldan would undoubtedly resist, resent, and go straight to Uther with the tale.

Then, a plan. Simplest was best, but even the simplest required at least two men. The tunnels were the best escape route, but it needed one man on the inside to open the cell and one man on the outside to open the hidden grate in the forest. He thought he had someone in mind – or Gaius himself, if the old man was agreeable and confident he could manage it – but that left the other guards on duty.

Simplest to drug them. Sure there would be trouble when the escape was discovered, there would be punishments for sleeping on the job. If the drug was also discovered – either a liquid mixed with a jug of watered wine, or set alight and inhaled as smoke – there would be an investigation for collaborators. In that case, Arthur determined to confess to his father in private; there was only so much Uther could do to punish his heir, after all. Discomfort and boredom, and he could suffer that for Merlin.

He'd often suffered that _with_ Merlin, he thought, allowing a cynical smirk as he ducked behind the curve of a stair to let two servants descend and hurry past.

Still, drugging them was preferable to clobbering them from behind. Which was far different from clobbering them from the front, on the training field – when they could see an opponent coming, and had the training and arms to defend themselves. And they knew that. He did not want to lose the goodwill of the loyal soldiers of Camelot – because he would be implicated in his servant's escape as a matter of course, no matter how it was done - that sort of thing would spread. Only as a last resort.

More uncertain, was the question of gaining their cooperation. Any form of bribery – whether actual or promised – could have unforeseen consequences. As a king, favors bestowed were one thing – favors asked, dangerous.

Finally, the physician's quarters. To avoid attention from the guard at the base of the stair, he opened the door without knocking on it and slipped inside, the greeting already on his lips as he closed it again behind him, "Gaius?"

At the same time the lone occupant of the room, at the table before the single-lit marked candle, bolted up and said, "Gaius?"

Arthur blinked. Sir Leon, out of armor for the night.

"Oh," the knight said blankly. "Prince Arthur. I thought you were –"

"Gaius," Arthur finished for him, glancing around the darkened room. "Where is he?"

Leon shrugged. "No one has seen him since the trial."

"That's ridiculous," Arthur growled, stalking further into the room and kicking the three-legged stool – mostly by accident; it was dark. "One guard told me, he was going on his rounds, another one told me he was harvesting plants in the forest."

"I wondered if maybe… he just left."

Arthur swung around to see the slight grimace on the knight's face. "You mean, left Camelot entirely? He wouldn't do that, not with Merlin on trial for his life."

"Maybe he was afraid of what Merlin might say."

Arthur moved closer, the better to see Leon's face in the dim light. "What do you mean by that."

"That spell he did." Leon thrust his hands behind him in a relaxed-respectful posture, probably unconsciously. "Sire, I testified that I saw Merlin's eyes turn gold, I saw his gesture and its effect, though I didn't hear the spell. But…"

"But what?" Arthur demanded.

"You didn't see him." Leon's voice lowered, troubled and intent. "Sire, he was _confident_. And he said nothing at all, he spoke no word. Of course, I'm not an expert, but I assume that means stronger magic, rather than the alternative."

Arthur opened his mouth to argue, and found he had no words.

"I spoke to a few of the others, this afternoon and tonight," Leon continued. "Some that tell stories, that… get repeated, on the field, around the campfire. You know. Close scrapes, lucky accidents… You've had them yourself, haven't you, sire? Turning around to find an enemy at your back – but inexplicably weaponless? Or, with one of his own fellows' arrows in him, or having just been rendered unconscious by a falling damn tree branch!" Leon calmed himself visibly. "I'm sorry, sire. Nobody's said anything because there's no proof, and you hate to spit in the eye of good fortune, if that's really all it is, accusing someone of saving your life _illegally_. But – what if he's been doing this sort of magic for years, and Gaius knows?"

Worse. What if Gaius taught him.

Arthur shuddered. What a horrible thought, that the old man would encourage a farm boy with obvious weaknesses – determined to protect Arthur though he couldn't balance a blade worth a damn, and ready to believe his boyhood friend untainted. To irreversibly sully his soul, risk the crimes that would inevitably come, when Merlin's natural innocence was overcome by magic's evil influence.

"I don't believe it," he said slowly. "Gaius wouldn't sacrifice Merlin to magic, like that." Though perhaps, since Gaius had dabbled, before he swore off sorcery, maybe he thought Merlin could do the same?

"Not even to protect you?" Leon said meaningfully.

He looked around the room again. A physician, a healer – dedicated to fighting corruption and saving lives. It didn't make sense.

"I came here to ask Gaius for a sleeping potion," Arthur said.

"For yourself?" Leon asked, with a subtle smile and a raised eyebrow that said, he understood his prince completely.

So Arthur finished, "And his help freeing Merlin from the cells."

"Do you know if he keeps extra doses of that potion, and where they are, sire?"

Both of them glanced around; if there was any organization to any stage of the portion-formulating process, it was lost on Arthur. He snorted. "Never mind. I guess I'll have to render the guards insensible with a length of tree branch, instead. Or something."

Leon looked faintly alarmed. "Right now, Arthur?"

"No." He gave the knight a disappointed grimace. "It needs two – one to get Merlin to the tunnels, the other to open the grate in the forest."

Leon looked past Arthur's right shoulder. "If I may say, sire, you ought to be the man on the outside. Make an excuse to leave – hunting, perhaps – so you are above suspicion when the escape becomes known. And…" His glance back to Arthur was almost shy.

"Go on," Arthur said, pulling back a smile. "I was thinking about sounding you out on this, but I hate to _ask_ a man to commit treason." What was the kingdom coming to, when doing the _noble_ thing was treasonous?

"Perhaps if I asked?" Leon was still uneasy about it, but Arthur trusted him. "These few of the lads, might be amenable to swearing that the prisoner used magic to vanish right out of his cell."

Arthur stared. And if the situation they were discussing were not so dire, he might have laughed. That was the best story, right there. Merlin free, and no one having to face punishment for even the slightest dereliction of duty, or suspicion of involvement. Aerldan might even be in trouble, for the failure of whatever he'd done to block Merlin's ability to cast a spell.

"Who?" he said. "And how soon?"

"Best if I keep the names private?" Leon suggested. "As long as you're on the outside to open the grate… I'll let you know, once we've organized the guard schedule?"

"Excellent." Arthur loosed his smile, then, and looked back to the marked candle on the table. Half of an hour, maybe, til midnight. Perhaps it would raise suspicion – or lower it, maybe – but… "I want to see him, tonight," he said. "Merlin. Whatever the questioner did with him, he's had a helluva day and a night. I want to be sure he'll go willingly, and that…"

"He knows he hasn't been abandoned," Leon agreed. "Only – see to it that he swears off magic? For the sake of all our consciences, helping him to escape."

"Yes," Arthur said grimly. "For the love of Camelot, yes."

..….*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

He was nearly drunk. One more tankard of ale… He puckered his lips and squinted toward the bottom of the vessel in his fist – or maybe two. It was hard to tell; Mercian law didn't regulate the watering of ale the way Camelot did, and these border towns were the worst.

It wasn't working the way he wanted it to. The way it always had before, up until a fortnight or so ago.

The tavern had always been fun before, he mourned. Noisy and full of friends; now something was lacking. He was aware that he was bordering on maudlin.

Maybe he should quit drinking alone in a corner. Go look for a game of chance to play, or at least to bet on. Go look for a fight.

Before he could make a move, someone else sat down across from him, with a huff of extra weight and age. A man with shoulder-length white hair, and lines of exhaustion marring his stern expression. He wanted to say the man was familiar, but –

"Gwaine," the old man pronounced. "I have been looking for you."

He looked his companion over. Long brown coat, fully buttoned down the front and split for riding at the sides over his trousers, which were filthy with road dust and muck. He slurred a question which might have been, _Do I know you?_ or _Do I owe you?_

"I must say, I hoped to find you a bit more sober," the old man said with a grimace of distaste. "Merlin is in trouble; I need your help."

That sobered him up in a hurry. And then he knew the old fellow's name.

"Gaius," he said. And gave him a twice-over. The physician's quarters were a good five hours' journey at a steady pace over good roads. Which meant that the old man was desperate – and yet couldn't ask anyone in Camelot. "What happened?"

"He's been arrested," Gaius told him. "It's only a matter of time til he's sentenced to execution."

Gwaine felt his eyebrows lift, and shoved his half-empty tankard to one side. "What did he do, insult the wrong noble?"

"No, he-" The old man checked himself, giving Gwaine a keen glance. "Suffice to say, he did the wrong thing at the wrong time."

"With the best of intentions," Gwaine guessed. "But the wrong people saw?"

"Something like that. He can explain more fully if and when he is so inclined." Gaius leaned his elbows on the table between them. "I have a plan for his escape, but I need you to – meet him. Care for him, whatever condition he's in, make sure he leaves the territories where Uther's influence reaches."

"Condition?" Gwaine narrowed his eyes. "You mean he's injured?"

"Possibly. I don't know for sure. Uther handed him over to a questioner."

"Anyone I know?" Gwaine said.

"Aerldan?"

"Bastard." Gwaine didn't bother clarifying whether he meant the king or the questioner - both equally, probably.

"I don't have much time," Gaius said. "I'm riding back tonight, if you agree to help."

It was nearly midnight. Almost dawn, when the old man reached his home, having given up all sleep to make this trip. So did it matter that he was risking execution himself, if he were caught on Camelot land? It didn't; Merlin would do it for him, he knew after only a few days' acquaintance with the young servant. The only one he'd ever entrusted a secret to. He still didn't know why he'd chosen to make that confidence, but he didn't regret it.

"I'll come," he said, shifting his left boot to feel the reassuring weight of his pack under the bench he was sitting on. "Only – why not Arthur? He seemed half-decent at getting his own way with his father." He seemed more than half-decent otherwise, also.

"The nature of the crime," Gaius said cryptically.

Gwaine twisted sideways on the bench, reaching for his pack and setting it between his knees in preparation to depart. He probably shouldn't ask, but… what the hell.

"Is he guilty?" he said casually.

The old man's eyebrows rose. "Does it matter?"

Gwaine did him the courtesy of considering his response.

Before he'd known who they were – crown prince and manservant – he'd seen a cocky young man picking a fight, and his lightweight friend willingly facing a mob at his side. When presented with a tavern bill as long as his arm and Gwaine himself falling-down drunk, Merlin had laughed and offered to pay – the inability to do so an afterthought, and never even a worry. Looking down the row of filthy soldiers' boots, he'd shrugged and grinned and said of his punishment with perfect good nature, _I think it's fair._

Of his master he'd said, _he's a noble, but a good man_. And because Gwaine had believed Merlin, had risked his life – but gained the experience of a fine fight – entering the melee to watch the prince's back against would-be assassins, he'd learned for himself that a lifelong cynicism might be wrong.

Which meant, there was room for hope in Gwaine's philosophy, for the first time in… ever. Perhaps he'd saved Arthur's neck, but Merlin might arguably have saved Gwaine's life from utter uselessness, at the same time.

And. If Merlin was guilty, whatever it was, he _had_ done it with the best of intentions, that Gwaine believed.

"Not a bit," he said easily. "Where do I meet him?"

"Up the hill from the tavern where you first met him," Gaius said, shifting as if preparing to leave, himself. "And Gwaine, I hardly need warn you, you'll both be fugitives, at that point."

"I'll be careful," Gwaine protested with a grin.

That eyebrow rose ominously.

"I'll be careful with Merlin," Gwaine amended.

"You had better be."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur closed Gaius' chamber door behind them.

"Sire, you may want to consider…" Leon hesitated, joining Arthur in descending the stair. No longer trying to avoid notice; the crown prince strolling and chatting with a knight was not an incident worthy of report to the king by anyone. "How far, you are willing to take this."

"I don't take your meaning," Arthur said, a bit impatiently.

"If something goes wrong. What are you willing to do, to –" Leon broke off what he had been going to say, as they rounded a corner to take a corridor that was not unoccupied. "To _achieve your goal_?" he ended, glancing at a passing servant.

"If something goes wrong," Arthur repeated.

"If we're betrayed, or caught," Leon answered, lowering his voice. "There are knights who would die upon your command. There are also men whose loyalty to their current lord is unquestioned. Would you set them at odds?"

Arthur recalled a time, almost two years ago now, waiting for Merlin as the outside man at the grate, preparing to defend a child in the same predicament as his servant now found himself. Wondering, if the knights came down that dark tunnel, would they fight him. Would he fight them. Would they be willing to hurt each other – kill each other -

"Kingdoms have split over such issues," Leon ventured. "The heir's defiance of the crowned ruler?"

"You're asking me, am I willing to kill my father's men, for Merlin's life," Arthur said, as they rounded another corner and started down to the lower levels, more certain now that there wouldn't be anyone to overhear them. "Whether I'm willing to ask anyone else to die, to accomplish his freedom?"

Leon shrugged uncomfortably.

"I can't say," Arthur said.

Remembering, for a surreal moment, one day when he had confronted – _challenged_ – his father. How _wrong_ it felt, once he'd calmed down again, how grateful he'd been to Merlin for saying – hm, something against magic, interestingly enough, but in any case, whatever it took to get through Arthur's hazy battle-rage.

"I can't order that, I can't ask that – for anyone to disobey the king, or risk his life. I won't split our ranks. But… damn, let's hope it doesn't come to that. I don't want to see Merlin dead, either."

But perhaps… if something went wrong and their plans were discovered, if Uther saw Arthur's determination, perhaps he would not risk the same civil unrest? If he himself understood that he must not unduly undermine the authority of the current king, might he not be able to count on Uther's disinclination to undermine the future king? Possibly…

Arthur followed Leon, down the stairs that turned twice before they reached the open area where the prison guards had a small table and several chairs, and were accustomed to dicing and drinking while they served this duty.

He descended the last six steps slowly, while Leon spoke to the three soldiers. He didn't hear what the knight said, but as one, the guards turned back to their game, affecting not to notice Arthur. _That's the way we're going to play it then. Everybody pretend it never happened._ Without looking at him, Leon motioned Arthur to pass, and he headed for the further stair, down into deeper darkness.

There were only two cells on the lowest level, along with the interrogation chamber, with bars on the front of the cell and a stone wall separating the two. The door of the first stood open, the second was closed, but both were empty. The thick plank door of the interrogation chamber was closed, also. Arthur heard nothing; he didn't know if he should be glad for that, or not.

Not wanting to be seen by Aerldan, he slipped into the first and open cell to wait.

It was quiet, and dark – the light of the solitary torch in its sconce by the stair didn't reach far – and absolutely foul. Arthur gagged, then tried to continue breathing without risking his sense of smell. No cot, no pallet, no straw. No bucket. Simply, filthy stone.

As cluttered as Merlin's room had been the few times he'd glanced through the open door, it had always seemed clean, at least. Merlin's clothes always clean as well; he wasn't half bad with laundry duties. Unless he had one of the laundresses sweet on him, or –

Arthur shook his head. Ridiculous. The thought, and him thinking it to avoid the reality of the situation.

He alerted to the sound of a door, the sound of a man's high-pitched voice. The noise of boots, and a scraping he recognized from Merlin's arrival and departure from the trial, this afternoon. He was being dragged again – though whatever Gaius had given him to keep him safely unconscious had surely worn off, long since.

The threesome came into sight as before – the same guards? Arthur didn't know – turning sideways to enter the narrow cell door.

The first guard startled a bit to see the crown prince, but didn't pause in his task. Merlin was limp between them, making no obvious move to lift his head or move his feet.

"He's unconscious?" Arthur demanded.

The first guard glanced about the shadowy floor as if deciding where to place the prisoner. "Not quite, my lord."

"Let me take him." The words were out of Arthur's mouth before he even realized his intention, his feet moving him forward, his arms reaching for the lanky form of his servant. The two guards stopped, shifting to allow him to pass his arms around Merlin's ribs.

"Watch his arms and hands, my lord," the other guard said neutrally.

"I've got him," Arthur said, bracing himself to accept Merlin's full weight. He could feel the boy breathe and shudder, his head lolling on Arthur's shoulder. "It's all right – you're dismissed."

"Thank you, sire," the first said.

They left the cell door open as they departed; the second added, "Our post is the foot of the stair if you require us, my lord, simply call. We'll lock up when you're finished?"

Arthur jerked his head in impatient response. Then, quieter and preparing to lay his burden down, "Hey, Merlin."

The servant moaned, and slurred Arthur's name. "Don't… don't look at me," he went on, thickly.

"I should close my eyes, and just drop you anywhere?" Arthur said. His own throat felt half-closed, and his eyes stung – probably from the stench of this place. He twisted so he could lay Merlin on his back, and lowered him slowly by degrees. Carefully. His servant moaned and grunted, though it seemed to Arthur that he was trying not to. "What did he do to you?"

"Hit me with a stick." Another soft pained gasp.

"On your back?" Arthur said.

"No. My arms and… shins. I want to… be on my side, though… Arthur?"

"All right," he soothed the boy, helping him shift on the hard and filthy floor.

Merlin moved stiffly, and bit his lip to keep another moan quiet, drawing his arms into his chest, hands near his face. Arthur squinted down in the gloom as he crouched at Merlin's side; he couldn't see clearly but he thought the bruises on the side of Merlin's face had swollen his eye shut.

"Why," he said softly. "Why did he do this?" He felt like dragging Aerldan to the training field and making him stand a training dummy to have the stuffing knocked out of _him_. Midnight or not.

"Because I wouldn't tell him what he wanted to know." Merlin's eyes – or eye, rather – opened again, to stare unseeing at the toe of Arthur's boot.

"Merlin," Arthur said softly, putting his hand oh-so-lightly on his servant's thin shoulder. "You have to cooperate. You have to answer him. You have to tell the truth."

A tremor rippled through Merlin's body, and it took Arthur a minute to realize his servant was crying. As much as he teased him about being soft and rather girly, he'd never witnessed more than a suspicious gleam, a hastily-wiped cheekbone as Merlin's back was turned.

It shook him, to feel Merlin's quiet sobs, to hear the dry gasp for breath, over and over, as he _couldn't_ turn his back, this time. "Please don't… look at me."

For answer, Arthur shifted so he was seated on the cell floor, disregarding the filth and the trousers suitable for dinner with the king. He wanted to clap Merlin's shoulder in a comradely-sympathetic way, but didn't know if he'd hit a sore spot, so he settled for rubbing Merlin's black hair, just briefly. "I'm so sorry," he said in a low voice. "This is my fault."

Merlin gulped a protest. "No, Arthur… it was my choice."

"If my father," Arthur went on, troubled, "won't change his mind about… execution. Merlin, you have to be ready to take your chance." He felt his servant still slightly, attentively. "Do you understand me? You have to go, you have to be able to go." He bent closer to Merlin's ear. "You have to cooperate with Aerldan, til then. You have to tell him the truth. Can you do that? For me, Merlin?"

Even if Leon was right, and they found out Merlin's exposure to magic was more extensive and serious than the single spell. If anyone could resist that corruptive influence and retain relative purity of soul, it was Merlin. And he did not think he could bear that his servant should suffer for caring about him and trying to protect him, any more.

"For you," Merlin whispered. "Yes."

"I can't stay," Arthur told him regretfully. "I'm not supposed to be here at all – if my father found out, it could be very bad for both of us." He meant to say it lightly, but Merlin didn't respond right away. And he thought, as he moved to get to his feet, looking down at his servant – body beaten limp and unresisting, face marred by bruises and tears – it was already very bad for Merlin.

"S'okay. 'M glad you came."

He thought it safe to touch Merlin's elbow, and whispered, "I'm sorry."

"Please don't hate me." Merlin's voice was a fraction louder, stronger, clearer, as if to hold Arthur there with him a moment more, impress upon him the importance of what he wanted to say. "When they – if they tell you. What I've said. Please don't hate me, Arthur?"

"Merlin, you're…" What was he supposed to say to that? _You're an idiot, I could never hate you._ Or, _what do you suppose you've done that's so bad you're afraid I will?_

"No, please. Don't." Merlin didn't even turn to meet Arthur's eyes, didn't move a bit, even to pillow his head on an arm, softer and at least marginally cleaner than the ground. "You're better than that. Don't… don't hate. No matter what?"

"I don't hate anyone, Merlin," Arthur told him softly. Still Merlin didn't move, but he seemed to relax, at that.

Down the corridor, a voice called, and another answered. Arthur imagined it was someone – Leon maybe – checking up on him. Impatient not to be discovered, themselves.

"I'll see you tomorrow," he promised. Somehow, some way he'd make it happen. "You'll be all right, you hear me?"

"Yes… my lord."

It made his heart ache, a bit, when Merlin used his title and meant it. Tonight, it made him feel guilty, as though it had been Arthur's duty to protect his servant, and he had failed.

He'd make it up to Merlin. He would be free, and fine, sooner or later.

 **A/N: Bonus – now with added Gwaine pov! Ask me why not Lancelot? Because Gwaine did mention he might go to Mercia – therefore he would be easier to find - as far as I remember, Lancelot didn't mention any concrete plans. And, Gwaine is my favorite. Cheers!**

 **A bit shorter, this chapter, but the next picks up with the next day, so it seemed a natural break…**

Kirsten: Thanks for your reviews! (since I can't say it in a PM…)


	5. Truth and Freedom

**A/N: 'Kay, just to be safe. Warning for this chapter: a bit of torture, description of past torture…**

 **Chapter 5: Truth and Freedom**

Arthur knew he was not a patient man by nature. It was what got him into trouble when he'd disobeyed his father for Merlin's sake, before. He'd far rather be _doing_ something, than waiting.

He also knew, it was a trait a king ought to cultivate, and be able to employ, if the situation called for it.

All morning, he compromised. Keeping the impatience raging internally, still he flattered himself that he focused on his duties without betraying more than a passing annoyance with anyone, even the boy who showed up with his breakfast. Although, the man he kept glancing over his shoulder for, wasn't Merlin, but Leon.

 _What_ , he asked himself, the second day in a row, _is taking so long_?

He'd glimpsed Gaius crossing the courtyard from his window – that reassured him, though he'd found no opportunity to speak to the old man without obviously manufacturing one – which wouldn't do.

And then he was receiving summons to attend his father in his council chamber – _that can't be good_ – where Leon couldn't even give him a nod or a wink without being marked.

As Arthur turned the last corner, he saw two female figures nearly at the chamber door ahead of him. Light blue skirt, gold-embroidered bodice, tidy knot of curly black hair – his heart jumped forward a beat in spite of himself. Fresh as the morning. Warmth and calm comfort.

The other, in emerald silk, fine and haughty – if a garment could be so described – but the one of the pair he was allowed to address, unless in private.

"Morgana!" he called.

Both girls turned and he hurried his stride forward to reach them for a quick word before they annoyed the king with their tardiness. Both seemed upset, but where Guinevere's expression showed subdued dismay on behalf of the young man Arthur knew was her friend also, Morgana's demeanor seemed a conflicted tension of impatience and trepidation.

"I wanted to ask a favor, but you haven't come out of your rooms all morning," he said.

And instead of teasing him about having something he needed, or requiring payment for whatever action he suggested, she blustered an excuse. "I didn't sleep well and I've had a headache, I'm sure you understand I was ill-disposed for company, under present circumstances!"

"Yes of course I'm sorry I hope you're feeling better now," he said quickly. "I wondered if you might be willing to ask my father a birthday boon." The occasion was only a few days away; Arthur hoped he might have this triumph to celebrate, personally.

"Yes, what is it?" she said impatiently.

Arthur paused – Guinevere by her expression, had already guessed it, and was also surprised that Morgana had to ask. "For… mercy," he said. "For Merlin's life."

For a brief moment, fury glared green at him from her eyes. "For Merlin's life," she repeated. "I should beg mercy from Uther to spare Merlin for attempting to use magic?"

"Er… yes." Guinevere's eyes were wide; she evidently thought Morgana's tone uncharacteristically harsh also. Arthur made a mental note to ask Gwen about that; he had noticed that the air seemed cool between Merlin and Morgana, since they'd rescued her.

"Uther won't listen to me," Morgana went on. "Why don't you ask him?"

"He won't listen to me," Arthur repeated, feeling stupid for doing so. "It's worth a try, Morgana – it's your birthday and my father has denied you nothing since… these past few months."

It seemed to him that her lip curled in disdain, just a bit. "I will look for an opportunity," she said. "We're going to be late."

Flicking a lock of hair over her shoulder, she stalked into the council chamber, shoes clicking, as Guinevere glided unobtrusively behind her. Arthur waited a moment more, so they didn't all arrive at the same time, then paced forward – measured and unhurried. Uther lounged on the great chair, perusing a scroll that curled over his fingers and stretched down toward his lap. There were others present also – council members. Gaius.

Arthur suddenly thought, _it's the conclusion of the trial_. Sentencing. Even Morgana can't interrupt to beg a favor. He said, "Father?"

"Ah, Arthur." The king rose from his chair, speaking to Arthur but seemingly unconcerned that everyone else could hear. "I'm sorry to say, Arthur, your servant has broken – though it took a bit longer than I expected. If he had been better trained to immediate obedience…" Uther raised an ironic eyebrow at Arthur.

No, immediate obedience never had been one of Merlin's traits – and never would be, Arthur rather thought. He was too inclined to think for himself, first. Perhaps that came of not being raised to service.

"I'm sorry, broken?" he said, keeping his cringe internal, and his voice even. "I don't follow."

"Broken," Uther repeated. "His mind is completely broken – babbling nonsense most of the morning, according to Aerldan."

"What sort of nonsense?" Arthur said. Hoping desperately that it was just a case of Merlin's ridiculously confused tale-telling being unintelligible to someone who didn't already know the full story.

"For instance," Uther declaimed, still tacitly including their audience, as he consulted the scroll. "He claims he captured the goblin, but freed the dragon; he healed Tom the blacksmith with magic, but did not release him from the cells after his arrest."

Arthur looked immediately at Guinevere, as many in the room did. She wore a strange look of thoughtful surprise – he remembered that Merlin had taken responsibility for Tom's healing at the time, hadn't he?

The king went on in a patronizing drawl. "He freed a druid named Mordred from custody in our cells, but not the one named Alvarr. He killed Morgana as well, evidently, and now she wants to kill us."

Mordred. Arthur remembered him; Merlin had been involved in his escape. Morgana was white as a sheet and barely maintaining composure – odd, that. He would have assumed more sympathy for such an obvious misunderstanding; Merlin could not have killed Morgana, here she was.

"He killed Sophia Tirmawr in a lake, and the sorceress Nimueh on an island. He killed both the griffin and the questing beast with a single spell – quite a feat, as those monsters threatened Camelot more than five months apart, if memory serves. Your servant does quite a bit of killing, doesn't he? Perhaps you allow him too much free time." The sarcasm drew several sycophantic chuckles from around the room.

It was lost on Arthur. Sophia… he remembered little of the girl or her visit – though Morgana had teased him so, the incident could not be forgotten – and nothing at all of the recounted elopement. Merlin had claimed, a tree branch that time, hadn't he?

An even vaguer memory. On the edge of consciousness, he'd heard Merlin bellow something half-heard but desperate – he'd seen a glow of blue – before Lancelot was bending over him, worry showing on his face under the visor of the helm he'd worn to charge the invincible creature of magic.

A glow of blue…

"If Merlin," he forced out, "has indeed broken…" What was the truth? "Then surely he is of no danger to anyone. He can be released, returned to his family and village perhaps?"

Uther was already shaking his head, rolling the scroll again. "Unfortunately, one thing was clear," he said. "The sorcerer refused to repent his use of magic, his disregard of our laws – and more significantly, has refused to take any oath whatsoever restricting future use. He is dangerous, Arthur, contaminated beyond saving. Evil."

 _No_! Arthur was quite sure he shouted it, but Uther's expression didn't change from bored distaste.

"Therefore, I am forced to conclude the boy's trial with the order for his execution."

"Father, please," Arthur said, in a low but hard tone, meant for just the two of them. "Merlin doesn't – see things the way that most people do, and he can make the truth sound like – a fantastical story. Let me see him, let me talk to him. Perhaps I can persuade him to contrition and his life may yet be spared?"

Uther took half a step closer, his brows drawing together. "You will not oppose me in this, Arthur," he said, in much the same tone. Arthur held his gaze – not defiance, but resolution. And his father relented. A bit. "But, since it means this much to you, I will allow you this attempt."

"Thank you, my lord." Arthur bowed his head respectfully.

"One attempt. And then you will submit to my judgment in the matter."

If Uther ordered a pyre built – the standard punishment for convicted users of magic; their collaborators were beheaded – it would take an hour, yet. Arthur would probably not be allowed to ride out as Leon had suggested – hunting a ridiculous excuse if his servant was sentenced to burn – but he and Leon could switch places. And he could knock a few heads to see Merlin to safety. As long as he was no more than watched, not restricted, and not restrained.

Because he honestly didn't think he could stand still and watch Merlin burn to death.

"My lord," he repeated, with another half-bow. And an idea struck him. "Perhaps Gaius should accompany me. He is a physician; he might better judge the prisoner's state of mind. He and I together might effectively coerce an oath of renunciation."

Uther gazed at the floor and thought, then gave the stern-eyed physician a keen glance, before he nodded. "I will send half a dozen guards with you," he said, "as a precaution."

"Yes, my lord." Still. It was something.

If Aerldan had tortured the boy to insanity in spite of Merlin's promise to tell the truth – though what was he to make of the contents of the scroll? – Arthur would never forgive himself. But between him and Gaius, they might achieve results that would buy them some time, anyway.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The heat was the worst.

All around the room in a dizzying whirl of dance and flicker, torchlight bright and hot and inescapable.

Sweat trickled down Merlin's body, bare chest and shoulders and arms, stinging over the bruises and the containment rune cut into his flesh – indistinct now as it had been rubbed through his shirt several times during the night, when he'd dozed off and moved his hands unthinkingly – smeared and swollen and flesh reddened all around its lines.

It burned, as his magic roiled beneath. A force of nature like warming sun or running water – contained and blocked it felt, this morning, much like a pot of liquid simmering over a fire.

The block clattered, occasionally, rattling through his teeth and bones, making him nervous and uneasy. Uncertain what might happen when the pot came to a full boil. Such a block, he sensed instinctively, was meant for users of lesser magic.

He'd seen enough of Gaius' experiments neglected over open flame a moment too long to have a healthy apprehension of what might happen if – when – the block failed. Could he control the result? Was he capable of the concentration and strength of will necessary? He didn't know. Several times he pushed back on the block, stabilizing it over his seething magic.

If he stopped the questioner. By any means.

If he stopped the guards from interfering when that happened. By any means.

He was on the lowest level. How many guards would he face, in trying to escape? One innocent, unintentional death was one too many. What about injuries? Did he have the right to protect his life, his body, by any means? His magic was necessary, for Arthur's life. Therefore, _he_ was necessary, and must continue to live. That was only logic, right? But what if that made Arthur hate him, hate magic? Because he had killed loyal men in saving himself?

That bubbling pot and rattling lid, that slow rising burn in his chest, was distracting and worrying, but he found himself focusing on that more often, as the morning passed.

The better to escape the fierce fiery pain in his hands.

He hadn't expected the truth to set him free. To men like the king and the questioner, the truth was what they decided it should be. Unfortunately, telling the questioner what he thought the man wanted to hear, didn't help. The questioner knew when Merlin lied, and didn't believe him when he told the truth.

He'd lost track of what he'd said, long ago, lost track of every sound that came from his throat except the raw screaming. Often he lost track of what question had been asked.

"So you killed the Lady Morgana – lovely lady by the way, I saw her yesterday at the trial, such _lovely_ hands – because the dragon told you to?"

The condescendingly calm voice dragged him unwilling back to the present. To the burn of the straps buckling his legs to the chair as he strained against them, not for freedom but for any irrational surcease from agony elsewhere. The chair itself hard and splintery behind his back, the back of his neck as he pressed his body ruthlessly into the implacable rigidity of the seat. It was an odd sort of comfort and relief from the pain of –

"Hm, boy?"

Fire shot up his fingers, up his arms, sparked pulse points and nerves and a fresh wave of sweat - cold but not a relief - and he couldn't even scream anymore. The sound that bubbled out of his throat was a twisted moan that trailed into a whimper.

He cracked his eyes open and lifted his head – never had it felt heavier – to see that the questioner had done nothing more than brush the blunt ends of the flat pegs protruding from Merlin's fingertips. Not even a new addition. The simple vibration from ones already there felt like his entire arm was being slowly filleted.

"Yes – no – what?" he panted dizzily.

"The fingertips are so, so sensitive," the questioner mused, stretching his own gloved digits toward Merlin's – he couldn't help a pleading whine of protest. "Incredible, isn't it? Almost I would trade places with you simply to _feel_ once again… almost."

"No," Merlin groaned. Gritted his teeth as that invisible, internal lid rattled insistently. "Please. Please, stop. You have to stop, I've told you everything –" wildly he hoped that wasn't a lie, he couldn't remember what he'd said or what he hadn't – "I can't hold it back forever –"

The questioner's hand hovered, threatening the instruments no longer shiny and pristine but smeared with blood old and new, twisting his fingers, pinning them to the bloodstained arm of the chair.

And he experienced a disorienting flash of fantasy – fire and light exploding out of him, pasting the questioner to the wall where he blazed like a torch himself and the stones rattled together like the lid on a boiling pot, but Merlin was free and whole – and he'd turn to see the scarlet tunics of the guards, engulfing them in screaming flames while above them all stones crumbled, tumbled…

The door slammed open behind him; he jumped and pain flashed and he cursed whoever –

A new voice. The prince's voice.

And another, very close, whispering his name with shattering sorrow.

Merlin extended an incorporeal hand, deep within himself - shaking and broken and dripping blood – to spread over that lid, glowing red-hot, and hold it firmly in place.

"Arthur," he whispered.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"What do you think?" Arthur was walking almost too fast for the old man to keep up, as impatient as he must have been to reach the young man he was guardian to, now that he had permission to do so. Arthur didn't slow, however; it suited him both to be able to ignore their escort – which included Arrok, by accident or design – and the expression on Gaius' face.

"It is difficult to say, sire. I hesitate to offer a diagnosis before I've had opportunity for examination."

Arthur grimaced to himself, glancing over the handrail of the segmented stair the led to the cells. As ever, the old physician buried his feelings beneath a medical man's detached manner. Much as he often did, with a knight or prince's demeanor.

"You know him best, Gaius," he remarked. And left unsaid the question, _better than I do, perhaps?_

Almost he didn't hear the old man's response, so privately quiet it was. "He is stronger than most give him credit for… there is every reason to hope it is not as bad as we fear."

Down another level, and the door of the interrogation chamber was not locked; Gaius remained respectfully two paces behind Arthur. The two soldiers on duty to the inside – faces obscured by the nose-guards of their helmets – both jerked to attention.

One said – in relief? – "Oh, sire."

Aerldan, dressed in a black smock, lifted his face in misshapen surprise and retreated toward his seat at the desk by the wall. But Arthur had not come to see _him_.

Merlin was in the prisoner's chair, facing away from the door, his head dropped down on the high back in exhaustion or unconsciousness. Arthur didn't look away from him as he spoke to the questioner.

"I've come on the king's authority to observe your results for myself," he stated.

Aerldan said nothing, but gestured, as genteelly as any lordling inviting Arthur to a feast.

Arthur might have gone on, had the arm of the prisoner's chair not been in his line of vision. A thick strap held Merlin's wrist and forearm to the arm of the chair, but there were streaks of blood visible at the far end, some darker, some brighter. A single drop fell as his eyes lit on the sight, to splash among a dozen others, on the floor… and the seat of the chair… and the side of Merlin's trousers.

His call for Gaius died in his throat, as the blue-robed physician shoved rather rudely past, to round the other side of the prisoner's chair. Arthur watched horror flash through the old man's expression, before he bent to give attention first to Merlin's face, speaking the boy's name soft and gentle. Merlin's head rolled on the back of the chair, lifted slightly, and Gaius caught Arthur's gaze.

"He's asking for you, sire."

Arthur moved closer, as fast as he was able, and still incredibly slowly. He felt he was caught in some terrible dream, knowing he must act, knowing the shock of what he would discover would increase, but resisting discovery would not change reality.

Merlin's hands were covered in blood. Thick, fresh, scabbed, smeared. His arms purpled with bruises, the skin of his chest carved and smudged with some macabre drawing. He thought of the few spots staining Merlin's shirt during the trial – _the more barbaric measures of the Purge_ – then the old man shifted and Arthur nearly vomited – only just controlling the reflexive gag by clenching his teeth and swallowing several times.

A small metal frame clamped Merlin's left hand to the chair. Arthur had seen one before, but never in use. And this one's screw was fully extended, pinning Merlin's fourth or fifth finger – he avoided looking too closely – to the wood of the chair-arm.

And not only that. Arthur noticed the silver glint of some sort of pin or peg – more than one – interrupting the bloodied fingertips. Jammed right up under the nail-bed.

Merlin's head lifted a bit more, his eyes opened – the blue deep and exhausted and pure in his face, gaunt and deathly pale beneath his bruises. Arthur was on his knees in a rush, crowding into Merlin's knees to catch his friend as he leaned forward; the boy's skin felt both slick and grimy where Arthur touched him.

"You don't have to move," Arthur breathed. "You don't have to –"

Merlin sobbed once, letting Arthur's shoulder support his head, turning his face blindly into Arthur's neck. "I told him… everything," he moaned. "Everything, I swear. He has to stop, Arthur –" Merlin gulped and a shudder ran through his whole body – "you have to make him _stop_."

He seemed quite lucid. Coherent. Well aware of where he was and what was going on, who he was with and why. Arthur was glad, and then a bit sorry Merlin hadn't escaped to some hidden and insane haven of the mind.

"No more." Arthur spoke to Aerldan without turning. "You're done. The king can base his judgment on your results so far." _You're lucky I'm unarmed, and too honorable to kill someone like you – diseased and defenseless_.

"He is broken anyway," Aerldan commented, creeping closer and clasping – rubbing – his gloved hands together. "I was almost sorry to do it – I've never seen hands like his."

Merlin's hands. Roughened from scrubbing Arthur's floor, discolored on occasion from the polish used for Arthur's armor, quick and sure as he fitted and buckled him into his protection during training, or a tournament, light and gentle afterwards when Arthur was sore… all ye gods together, Merlin's _hands_.

He reached to pull a silver pin from the bloody ruin of Merlin's left thumb – and froze as Aerldan gasped, gliding swiftly forward.

"The hands are so sensitive it hurt him so much," he said, nearly babbling in his eagerness. "He asked for you and called for you and cried for you – _sire_. Do it. To see you his master causing such pain to his hands – _extraordinary_ hands –"

Arthur gritted his teeth and growled in his throat; a helpless whimper escaped his servant, and he held still with an effort.

"Let me, Arthur," Gaius said, and began a low soothing murmur. "We have to remove these now, Merlin, be strong, hold very still…"

Merlin pressed himself back into the chair with sickening vehemence; Arthur surged to his feet, rounding on the questioner. Aerldan took a startled step back again and Arthur pursued him, crowding him back to his little desk and chair, keeping his eyes on the deformed features of the questioner and not the gruesome extraction taking place behind him.

"Are these barbed?" the physician said, raising his voice to address the questioner. Arthur swallowed his nausea once again at the thought, but Aerldan inhaled, straightening as his eyes brightened.

"What a fabulous idea! I must ask a silversmith –"

Arthur shoved his fist into the torturer's face. "Be quiet, or lose your tongue," he threatened darkly. Aerldan's eyes widened, and he bit what remained of his lips together.

Gaius' constant reassuring mumbling continued behind Arthur; Merlin loosed an occasional pained grunt or whimper or moan that made Arthur's nerves freeze and his stomach clench. He heard a faint chime, as one of the metal shards hit the stone floor.

"No, Gaius –"

"I have to, my boy, you know that."

"Give me a minute, please I can't –" A low cry… rising… choked off. Another piece rang lightly on the floor.

Arthur could not keep the look of incredulous disgust off his face. Aerldan dropped his gaze, his bowed shoulders lowered pleadingly. "Exceptional hands," he mumbled. "And he felt it so keenly."

"Not another word," Arthur said coldly. "Or I will remove your own."

The questioner's gloves shuffled together between them, as he spread his hidden fingers for his own absent-minded examination.

A shattering scream rose, hoarse and brief, muffled into a desperate repetition of Gaius' apology for causing additional, unintentional pain. Arthur wheeled round – the physician met his eyes, disregarding the wet tracks down his cheeks.

"Three are dislocated, sire, I apologize, he may lose some use of them if I don't… immediately."

"He won't need them where Uther will send him," Aerldan murmured.

Arthur very nearly backhanded the man as hard as he could, in spite of his infirmity. And maybe he didn't care a bit if his hands were chopped. Ignoring Aerldan, he moved back to join his friends.

Merlin braced himself in the chair, head back and neck corded with tension, every muscle standing out on his bony frame, right hand clenched in a fist below the strap around his wrist that was still in place. Gaius twisted, and Merlin's body jerked – there was blood on his lips.

"One more, my boy," the old man said, before he looked up. "Sire, I think it may help if you hold him – I will have to unscrew the apparatus before trying to re-set the dislocation."

Behind him, Arthur heard the questioner repeat Gaius' words in an insidiously delighted hiss.

He knelt over the body of his friend, pressing against his knees, leaning his forearm though lightly across Merlin's collarbones. "Hold on," he said in a low voice that pinched his throat abominably. "We've got to hurt you to help you."

His response was a heart-wrenching whisper. "Gaius get him away from me before –"

"Hold on," the physician urged. "One moment more."

 _Squeak_.

A shock of sympathetic ice shot through Arthur's nerves; Merlin squirmed underneath his hold, turning his head as if in denial.

 _Squeak_. Oiled or not, the mechanism was probably clogged with drying blood.

"No!" Merlin gasped. "Stop! I can't –"

Arthur swore, shifting to hold the slender frame in place. An arrow at least could be yanked. A wound from a weapon in combat was generally inflicted too fast for thought or realization til it was done. He couldn't imagine how excruciating –

 _Squeak_.

"N- _Aaaaagh_!"

A great blast of hot air shoved Arthur's entire body. He had a brief moment to realize he was airborne – Gaius tumbling in the other direction, a silver instrument glinting in his hands – Merlin's bonds at wrists and ankles _ignited_ – before he slammed into the stone wall.

Pain spiked through his skull in reds and yellows and he felt the unyielding stone below and behind him. Vaguely he heard voices that seemed at once loud and strident, and slow as a whisper.

"Arthur, Arthur!" That was Merlin, in a torn sob. "Oh, please – please…"

He blinked up at his servant – half-naked, filthy exhausted bloody _tortured_ \- and full of alarm for _Arthur's_ well-being. Those damaged fingers feeling for his pulse, trying to coax him to awareness.

"Don't touch me," he said thickly, and Merlin recoiled. "Don't – don't use your hands, Merlin, you idiot, you –"

He struggled upright, seeing red-and-silver pour into the room – fuzzy then bright – one aiding Gaius who was having trouble gaining his feet. Age not injury, Arthur rather thought; one was across the room, kneeling beside the black-smocked questioner's body.

"Dead," the guard pronounced.

"Broken neck, probably." Gaius' voice, before the rest of the swarm descended on Arthur, dragging Merlin back – the boy fought to return to his side, but ineffectually, screaming frustration defiance pain –

"Sire, sire – are you all right?"

That was Arrok's face, shoved too close to his own; he flinched back, and knocked his skull again on the stone behind him – the stars dripped from his eyes to his tongue, slowing and stilling it to a mumble in his own ears.

"Get the prisoner back to his cell!" Arrok shouted over his shoulder. "Someone help me with the prince! Physician, immediately!"

Once again, Merlin was dragged from Arthur's sight as he fought Arrok's cumbersome concern, unable to get his body into a position where he could rise. "No! Wait! Gaius, see to Merlin first!"

The old man gave him a sour grimace – _what do you expect, you're the crown prince and he's a confessed criminal_ \- as he took Arthur's head in his hands. He probed the sore lump gently as Arthur winced, tipping his head to inspect his eyes by torchlight – and as one arm was supporting him, Arthur had only one left to try to push off these unnecessary ministrations.

"I'm fine – I'm _fine_. It's just a bump on the head," he growled. "Let me up. Let me up!"

Three of them took Gaius' place, to pull him to his feet. Brenner, standing over Aerldan's body, said to the room at large, "What was _that_?"

"Sorcery," Arrok growled. "Clearly. My lord, you should retire to your chamber immediately – Gaius will you _please_ –"

Arthur stalked to the door – yes he could walk a straight line – the half dozen men getting in his way, a helpful hindrance. Two more from the higher cell-levels, who'd no doubt heard the noise, clattered down, unintentionally blocking his view of Merlin by their position and arrival.

Someone said, "He attacked the prince with magic."

It was repeated twice before Arthur could open his mouth to say, _no he didn't_. He heard echoes from up the stair, no doubt the third guard dispatched to report to the king – and _this_ was the story Uther would believe. In spite of the fact that Merlin's magic, as Arthur understood it, had been blocked before the trial.

The rest were all looking at him.

As they had the night he'd arrested Merlin.

"No one touches him," he ordered, sick to his stomach that he had to resort to this, even if it was for Merlin's own good. "If he's sentenced to death, I want to see it."

A smothering murmur of affirmative replies. Blood pounded through his head.

He sounded so much like his father.

"Why didn't you run when you had the chance?" he shouted in the direction of Merlin's cell. Before marching for the stairs, trailed by half a dozen fighting men of Camelot. And Gaius, damn it all, who wasn't going to be allowed to see the prisoner again, not without a fight.

Now all he could think of was, persuade his father to delay the execution, citing the need for the largest crowd, the punishment an effective deterrent – for any other insanely-protective citizen thinking of using magic to save the prince's life? But there couldn't be more than one of those, Merlin was unique – uniquely stupid, in this instance.

He reached to brush the tender knob swelling under his hair at the back of his head.

But… what _was_ that?

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin dropped to a crouch in his cell, bruising his lower back on the stone wall behind him as he didn't use his hands to break his collapse. Instead he raised his arms before his face in instinctive defense – but the guards did no more than march from his cell, close the door with a rusty _screech-clang_ , and lock it.

He cringed through the uncertainty of raised, heated voices he couldn't understand. And then Arthur's – angry, and evidently directed to _him_ , though they couldn't see each other.

"Why didn't you run when you had the chance?"

 _Don't touch me._

He gulped air, trembling all over. Exhaustion and pain and lack of food or water. And then, the agony of Gaius helping him had distracted him from the lid clattering angrily over magic in a full rolling boil – it had exploded from him in a shock of light and heat.

Gaius was all right, he told himself, clenching his fist weakly and with stabbing pain, but to feel what his mentor had surreptitiously tucked into his sweaty palm, again.

Arthur was all right; the prince was hard-headed, he'd been knocked out before. He'd have a headache, Merlin estimated, two to four hours, depending on whether Gaius gave him a dose of medicine, whether he went out to train under the hot sun, whether he had an argument with his father. He gasped a sobbing breath – that familiarity hurt him to the core, now. Though he couldn't quite bring himself to wish that he hadn't cobbled together a working relationship with his prince that was somehow deeper and broader and more complex and more _important_ than any he'd ever had before. Not even to have avoided this.

And the questioner evidently dead. Merlin felt nothing, when he thought of that. He hadn't meant to hurt the man; he hadn't meant _not_ to hurt him. He'd simply forgotten him at that moment of explosive release. At least, the questioner couldn't hurt anyone else, anymore.

Well, now the prince had seen Merlin's magic at its worst, hadn't he. Capable of killing. He wondered if Arthur hated him, now. Or just magic.

What was there in Camelot that was so important. Arthur, still Arthur. _Happy to be your servant til the day I die_. Was that day today?

No. It wasn't in him to give up.

He let shaking fingers fall open – a fragment of parchment, now dampened and smudged with his blood, and – he jerked reactively. One of the questioner's pins rang lightly as it struck the stone floor of the cell at his feet. Why…

With difficulty, he tilted the parchment to be able to read Gaius' spidery scrawl.

A spell. And another line below it, of instruction or suggestion.

He read it, mouthed it, felt a stir of power. It was a spell he recognized, but had never used.

Now he understood the reason for the pin.

Shifting where he could see it, between his knees, he picked it up awkwardly, between two relatively undamaged knuckles. Positioned it where he could wield it with enough force and control – and set the point to the skin over his chest.

 **A/N: I determined to mention a Witchfinder a/u by DwaejiTokki for certain resemblances when I got to this part – unintentional, of course, this was planned before I read that fic...**


	6. Fire and Escape

**Chapter 6: Fire and Escape**

Arthur paced his chambers like a caged wolf, his head throbbing.

Window, where he could see the guards constructing Merlin's pyre with brutal complacency in the courtyard below – to door, where there were two guards stationed, and two more at each end of the corridor.

"What the hell happened?" his father had demanded, meeting them as they emerged into the open-sided hall leading to the main levels of the citadel. "I was told, the sorcerer attacked with magic?"

"No, of course not," Arthur had begun, only to be spoken over by Gaius, pushing gently but firmly through the guards.

"I believe the fault was mine, sire," the old physician had claimed. "As close as I can estimate, the block Aerldan used was faulty, and when combined with the form of persuasion he chose for the prisoner, when released, resulted in a burst of air. Not destructive, but it did take us by surprise – and Aerldan was killed as a consequence of his own mistake."

"Magic is still to blame," Uther stated darkly.

After an awkward pause when Arthur could find nothing to say, Gaius said, "I cannot argue with that, sire."

So. The man who had blocked the magic was dead; the man who used the magic sentenced to death.

Arthur hadn't bothered protesting innocence or asking clemency. He'd suggested the possibility of delay, but that seemed to have sparked some alert in Uther, who demurred on the question and sent Arthur to his chamber with orders – _orders_ – to rest and recuperate after his injury. An injury he'd scarcely mention, if received during training or by accident – and if he did, it would be to a disdainful disregard by his father. Gaius was detained to speak longer with the king, with the understanding that he'd look in on the prince, following – the only reason Arthur had submitted to the dismissal.

And the guards. Believed that confining him to his chambers – by force if necessary, he'd been told – was for his own good. How could he fight that? And if he did, he'd find himself overwhelmed sooner or later, and pinned bodily in his bed while Gaius poured some sleeping potion down his throat – for his own good – and… no, he wouldn't think of what might come of that, then.

As he turned, he caught sight of himself in the mirror on the wall, and stopped. There was blood on his shirt, and the side of his jacket – even a fairly clear fingerprint by his collar. Merlin's fingerprint, in Merlin's blood.

He yanked the garments off, scraping his nose on the lacings of the shirt, and flung them in a corner. Then proceeded to scrub his arms to his elbows, and his face all the way down to his collarbone. The scent of laundry soap was faint and comforting, as he inhaled through the towel by the wash-stand. Set out new sometime this day by the fuzzy-haired servant, no doubt. And it made him sick.

One way or another, he'd lost Merlin.

Grabbing the first shirt he saw from the wardrobe, he crossed again to the window. And cursed the unidentifiable guard who patted his bundle of dry twigs in place below the platform – his door opened and he turned to see Gaius slip into the room.  
"How is your head, sire?" Gaius asked.

"It's fine _what_ did my father say to you?" Arthur demanded. "Is there any chance I can still talk him out of…" He couldn't say it; he could only gesture to the window overlooking the courtyard where executions were carried out.

"So it's still hurting you," Gaius nodded in weary sagacity, untucking his hands from his sleeves to reveal a little glass dose-bottle with a cloudy-gray liquid inside.

"Gaius, I swear," Arthur growled, "I _will not_ watch him die."

"Drink that," Gaius returned with asperity, "and I will answer your questions."

"Where's Sir Leon?" Arthur returned, taking the bottle and pulling out the stopper. "Do you think you could give him a message from me?"

Gaius frowned pointedly at the bottle, then back at Arthur. Who gave a hard sigh of frustration.

"Oh, fine." The liquid hit the back of his tongue and he swallowed quickly – that was always the best way for taking Gaius' medicines. "Now." He thrust the emptied bottle back at the old physician, who tucked it and his hands back in his sleeves.

"I believe your father had a specific task that will occupy Sir Leon's time for the rest of the day, if not tomorrow as well," Gaius said, "but it is likely you will see him shortly."

Fine. The pyre probably needed the better part of an hour to complete, anyway. They might be cutting it close, but if Leon knew a few fellows willing to take a risk… "What did my father ask you?" Arthur said. "What did you say to him?"

"I told your father it was my opinion that Aerldan had made many mistakes with this prisoner," Gaius said neutrally. "I couldn't answer for the veracity of the contents of the report."

"Last night Merlin told me he was going to tell the truth," Arthur said, not bothering to dissemble with this man, about his unauthorized visit to the cells. "Why would Aerldan have continued with the torture this morning, if Merlin was telling the truth?"

"Men will say many things under torture," Gaius generalized.

"Some of it was true, though," Arthur said slowly. "Wasn't it? He did catch the goblin – and he did help me free the druid boy Mordred from imprisonment."

"Come sit down," Gaius invited, gesturing for Arthur to follow as he headed toward the bed. "That particular tonic can make you feel a bit light-headed for a moment, initially."

Arthur discovered, although the pain was receding, he could no longer walk a straight line – fetching up with a bit of a clunk against the bedpost – but wasn't sure why it mattered. After all, it was only Gaius here.

"What about the oath?" he said. "If Aerldan's incompetence with the thumbscrew – or the magical block – caused that interruption, by all rights we should have another chance to talk Merlin into taking that oath."

Gaius sighed heavily, pressing Arthur to sit on the edge of his bed. "He wouldn't take it," he said quietly. "He couldn't keep it. Believe it or not, Merlin does take his promises and responsibilities very seriously –"

"Never said he didn't," Arthur protested. His eyes blurred briefly – was he swaying? or maybe that was Gaius – but he blinked them clear.

"If he faced a situation where only magic could save you, he'd use it," Gaius finished.

"And damn the consequences," Arthur told his knees sadly.

"Exactly so."

"What's going to happen, then?" he said. "How long have we got til my father decides –"

"The execution has been set. An hour's time," Gaius' hands were pressing on his shoulders, and he wondered why he was trying to resist.

"Tell Leon – on his own. Tell 'im find someone 'll help 'im…"

The old man lifted Arthur's boots to the bed – no Merlin'll have to clean the mud – he was so heavy the velvet pillows and coverlet were so soft.

"You are not the only one who cares for Merlin," Gaius whispered, from far away. "But sometimes, it is best to leave the action to others…"

Arthur could no longer hold his eyes open. So he stopped trying to.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin ignored the sting of the fresh cut on his chest, jamming the filthy pin awkwardly into a crack between stones where the floor met the wall in his cell to hide it. Making sure he had the spell memorized, he set the scrap of parchment down on the stone beside him.

And burned it, with one deliberate glance.

The magic still bubbled inside him, but the warmth revived him, now the restraining block-lid-whatever had been nullified, marred by the new line he'd scratched into his skin, breaking and altering the rune. It was full and ready, and anytime now –

"Hello, Merlin."

He set his palm down immediately over the smoking remains of the spell-scrap - fingers raised to keep them from brushing the floor, surreptitiously smearing the ash of the parchment into the anonymous grime of the stone floor - before lifting his head to meet her gaze.

Morgana loitered outside the cell, fine and proud as a queen. As an angry, vengeful queen, green fire snapping from her eyes.

"What did you do to the guards?" he said.

"Oh, please." She scoffed. "I should have killed them, to have you blamed for it – but really, what else can they do to you? A simple sleeping spell, Merlin, never worry for _them_. You, however, will not be so lucky." She smirked, but after Aerldan's rabid sadism, he found her ire as mild as dishwater. "You know, when we first heard – Merlin had done a spell of _magic_ – I was a little worried, you might have tried it because of me. Perhaps because you envied my power, or perhaps because you were desperate to be able to counter it."

"You were worried?" he said, wearily sarcastic.

Her smile flattened. "A little. Until I realized. When Uther read your confession this morning – it was the truth, wasn't it." She tossed her head scornfully. "Mostly. You freed Mordred, I know, but not Alvarr, and not the blacksmith. And you did try to kill me."

"My apology," Merlin said deliberately, "was genuine."

She sneered. "You've been doing magic for years, haven't you. It really was your book of magic Gaius gave Uther during that goblin incident, wasn't it. You hide and you sneak like the little rat you are, because you're too ashamed of what you have, too much of a coward to finish off the man who is enemy to us both. Instead you trail after his son, sniffing for a bit of favor."

Merlin wanted to argue. Wanted to point out who else was hiding and sneaking, these days. Wanted to challenge her assumption of Uther's reaction if she'd made a similar confession a year and a half ago – and who was the coward who hadn't, now, between the two of them.

But the last thing he wanted to do was provoke her now. Whatever he did in self-defense, would be seen as done to the king's innocent ward. She wasn't his focus, his primary concern, she never had been – rather, Arthur's protection, and a far second, his perception of magic.

"Half of an hour, Merlin," she said, with a sort of elated cruelty. "That's how much longer you have to live. This time, I'll be watching you gasping for breath… and no one will come to save you." She turned on the heel of her fine slipper and click-clacked her way out of sight, up the stair.

Merlin considered his spell. And the timing of it. Wondering if he dared cut it so close, even for the obvious benefit where Morgana and Uther were both concerned.

And if Arthur could forgive him a lie like this.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Someone said Arthur's name, and he opened his eyes.

First he only saw the canopy of his bed above him. Then he saw a face – someone he knew, someone he knew he trusted – long curly blond-red hair, the same-colored scruff of beard on his face, and a concerned expression.

It pleased Arthur, in a small way, that someone he knew, someone he knew he trusted, was concerned about him.

The person spoke. He had trouble making sense of the words he couldn't quite hear, but figured there wasn't much urgency.

 _I'm sorry, Arthur. I'm so, so sorry. I don't know whether your father discovered something or just suspected, but – can you hear me, my lord?_

"Yes?"

He turned his head further on the wonderfully comfortable pillow, to see that this man was wearing chainmail, and a red tunic with a golden dragon embroidered on his chest. That gave Arthur a sense of purpose, of responsibility greater than lying in bed.

So when the man's hands encouraged, pushed and pulled gently but relentlessly, he obeyed.

Sat up in bed. Swung his legs over the side. Stood.

There was someone else in the room. Someone short, with hair that looked like brown wool. Briefly Arthur wondered if it felt like wool – but he didn't know this man, didn't know if he trusted him, so he kept his hands to himself. The man did not return the favor.

He touched Arthur, straightening and tightening and tying laces on his shirt. Arthur was offended – no one touched him except… there were people who touched him and his clothes like this, he was sure. Distinctly he remembered black hair, but – male or female, short or tall… or both?

The man he trusted – the _knight_ , he was pleased to recall the word – didn't seem to notice anything out of the ordinary _. Not the chainmail. Doesn't he have a… jacket, or… vest or something? Something ceremonial?_

The shorter man left Arthur's range of vision. For quite a long time, it seemed, and Arthur felt very virtuous, waiting patiently.

The knight glanced at him. Impatient. Troubled. _You'll be okay, Arthur. We'll get through this, I promise. What doesn't… well, it'll make us stronger, all right?"_

Stronger. Yes, he agreed with that concept. A noble concept, and something he always wanted to be. For the sake of satisfying his father's expectations. For the sake of his people, and becoming what they needed in a leader.

 _Just anything. Hurry, can't you, for pity's sake?_

The short man returned, shoving the sleeves of some garment up Arthur's arms, over the shirt he already wore, bunching and twisting it. It felt clumsy and awkward, and Arthur was embarrassed for both of them. This wasn't how – _this_ – was done. But he bore the disarrangement of his clothing stoically.

 _It's time_ , the knight said. _Are you ready, Arthur?_

"Am I ready?"

The knight glanced at the other. _Yes, you're ready_.

"Yes, I'm ready," he repeated. Ready was good, just as good as strong; he was pleased at the prospect of being both at the same time.

The knight took hold of his arm just above the elbow – not tightly, not painfully – and he followed obediently. As they walked, he noticed the way the knight's shoulders were set, his head held high, his feet marched firmly, confidently. Arthur tried to mimic the posture, but found it hard to do at the same time as he was actually walking.

Just about the time he thought he'd managed to incorporate the attitude into his movement, he found the knight pulling him to a stop.

There was another man before him. A severe man with an intimidating scowl and scar, dressed in black and decked with silver and he felt his spine draw straighter. He said reflexively, "Hello, Father."

Father. This man was his father? This man was his father. He felt – pride and disappointment. Fear and longing.

 _Arthur. Are you ready?_ His eyes shifted away from Arthur's. _Is he ready?_

Someone behind him might have answered, but since Father's cold gray eyes no longer held his own, he let his gaze drift as well, and encountered two others. Girls.

One was sharp. Green eyes and black hair and she made him uncomfortable he didn't want to look at her.

The other was quiet and calm and sad, brown eyes and brown skin and she made him feel so comfortable he longed to return the favor. He wanted to be as close to her as possible, embracing her so tightly he could feel every breath along the inside of his arms and his chest and the air movement from her lungs on the skin at his neck and open shirt-laces, feeling her arms twining him so tightly his lowest ribs might compress a little but –

He was quite sure that was inappropriate, right now.

So he looked away from them both.

To see Father's back, as he strode away from Arthur, and two doors opened – all by themselves, it appeared to him; he squinted in bright sunlight that streamed in.

He shouldn't feel so drowsy and incoherent in the middle of the day.

But no one else seemed to mind, and the knight was tugging him forward, and the green girl was already passing outside, leaving her friend to sag against the wall with her back to the dazzling square of open doors. Arthur followed willingly – and nearly gasped aloud at the vista that opened before him.

He saw a small fringe of white – stone castle wall – at the lowest edge of a wide green sea of treetops. Shifting subtly, shadow and sunlight and he could feel the wind on his face and fairly smell the –

Father turned to face him, hand on an even more delicate fringe of stone. _You need to watch this._ He lifted his hand to point into the pit of stone below them.

Arthur obligingly glanced down – a puddle of hats and scarves and helms, a knot of gathered brushwood – boring. He lifted his eyes again to the mesmerizing view of all beyond.

Father spoke to the knight at his elbow. _Keep him back a bit. We don't want him tipping right off the balcony._ Then he turned to address the great wide green world, and it didn't seem to Arthur as though he was interested in what was being said.

He simply stood, and took pleasure in existence – fresh cool breeze, sun warm on his skin – then he noticed the _sky_ , above the wide green sea. The other half of the horizon, even further away, where high clouds played remote and unhurried games.

There was a tiny black spot, marring the mottled blue-and-fluffy-white. Arthur focused on it, squinted a bit in the bright, a bird. Hovering gliding, wings extended – it drifted closer, but probably unintentionally. And slowly, perhaps warily.

Arthur thought, perhaps, he loved that bird. How wild and fearless it was, it would never voluntarily come near him – and if it did, the honor of that choice would forever set him apart from other men. He found he longed for that, for the bird – hawk? no… eagle – to glide down to the balcony and perch, and look at him. Befriend him, it may be, in the strange way wild creatures had, perhaps even stay with him. Return to him.

But. The eagle was better off where he was, probably, spreading his wings.

He didn't know how long he stood, watching the eagle, before the air currents drew the eagle away again. Arthur nearly voiced a wordless protest – though it was better, free, and he had no right to command a wild creature. He knew himself privileged to have had even a glimpse.

Arthur heard its shrill scream and couldn't help smiling as his heart leaped up at the fierce freedom of the creature, as it tucked its wings and dove deliberately into the sea of tossing green treetops.

The eagle did not emerge again. The whole castle sighed around him with exquisite regret.

Father faced Arthur again, capturing his attention compellingly. Almost he asked if his father had seen the bird, too, but didn't. He felt Father was not the sort of man to understand or enjoy what Arthur felt – and decided to keep it private. His eagle.

 _Take him back to his chamber and make sure a guard has eyes on him at all times until the physician says he can be trusted on his own._

That made him feel faintly uncomfortable. To have someone – maybe a stranger, someone he didn't know, or trust – watching him… but then again, he could probably lie in that comfortable bed and close his eyes and watch the hemispheres of blue and green and the soaring eagle that crossed the line between them so effortlessly. Yes, that sounded nice. Arthur could imagine he flew with the eagle, too – flight must be an amazing feeling.

Father said, _Just rest, Arthur. In the morning, everything will go back to normal, now this foolishness is behind us._

Arthur didn't know how to respond. Should he agree? Did he agree? What foolishness?

He glanced down into the stone pit below them again, and saw that someone had lit the stack of wood and brush into a bonfire. He wondered what good that was – early summer, they didn't need the extra heat, and the people in the courtyard were paying it no attention at all, walking quickly away. What a waste of good firewood, and knights to tend it. Probably that was why the eagle had come no closer – birds feared fire.

Hands on his arms turned him, and he glimpsed the knight's face – eyes gleaming with barely-suppressed emotion. He wondered at that, as he was led back into the room – dark now to eyes accustomed to the infinite light of the open space – he saw the brown-eyed girl. Eyes covered now with her hands, and her shoulders shaking and something told him she was crying, not laughing.

He wanted, again, to take her in his arms and hold comfort protect her until she smiled again, but the knight was drawing him away.

Oh, yes. Back to chambers.

The room was empty when they reached it, the fuzzy-haired man gone. Arthur looked around; he didn't miss him, but there was someone he missed. Someone who belonged there, but wasn't.

He couldn't remember clearly. He was tired.

Just rest, Arthur. Father had told him to; the knight was leading, encouraging him to the bed. It seemed a fair refuge in the comfortable vagueness, and he allowed himself to be positioned, and the knight stepped back.

He closed his eyes, and was alone. But then he saw in memory, the eagle rise and swoop, and was consoled.

Arthur slept.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Half of an hour.

They brought Merlin a shirt, which surprised him – until he realized of course the evidence of the reality of Uther's _justice_ would of course be covered up as much as possible. A cheap shirt of thin white cotton, which the two guards watched him drop twice while he bloodied the bottom hem, trying to get into it, before they intervened.

His hands shook and his breath hissed and the cold sweat made him shiver, as the nearer guard bunched and positioned the shirt awkwardly.

"Thanks," he managed.

"Hurry up," the guard returned. "We'll get in trouble if we take too long."

He squirmed so the shirt would fall properly down his body, so he wouldn't have to touch it. The sleeves were long; he held his hands up near his face, elbows tucked tight to his body, an illusion of easing the pain.

The other guard had a pair of chained cuffs. He knelt to fasten the first around Merlin's ankles upwards of his socks and boots; he felt the pain of roughly-knocked bruises on his shins, but it was distant and comparatively dim.

"Hands behind your back," the guard said then, standing.

"Wait," Merlin said. "You've got to unlock them again anyway, when you chain me to the post –" the first guard shifted uncomfortably – "can't I have them in front, like this, on the way?"

The second guard hesitated, eyes – as far as Merlin could tell, in the shadow of the cell and his helmet – on his hands. Swollen, torn, trembling uncontrollably. The bleeding has stopped and the blood had dried, but not before making several runnels down hands and wrists after his release from the questioner's chair, as he held his fingers upright in the least painful position.

"The king won't like it," he said dubiously.

The first made a _tsk_ -ing sound. "Wouldn't you want the mercy, if you were in his place," he chided, and took the cuffs from his companion.

Merlin's forearms were bruised as well, and the weight of the iron uncomfortable, but the guard drew up his sleeves before snapping them locked. It protected his skin, a bit, and that helped. A bit.

At the base of the stair two more guards were waiting; one took up a position behind the two attached to his arms, while the other led them upward. Merlin walked but stiffly, through the bruises on his shins, and navigated the steps awkwardly, one at a time like a small child. Up, even. Up, even. Feet together. And by the time he reached ground-level, he was breathing hard and lightheaded. He needed water, probably.

Daylight blinded him, making his eyes cringe and water. The guards didn't hesitate, forcing him forward firmly, but not cruelly.

He could hear the murmur of a crowd over the sounds of their boots – four marching, and his shuffling – and he blinked dizziness from his eyes to run wetly down his cheeks. To meet the gazes of those closest in the crowd, unexpectedly. Faces he was familiar with, after so long serving the prince, it seemed most of the lower town was there, if not all. Shock and sympathy, a handful with a gruesome sort of eagerness.

They were parted to allow him and his guards passage to the middle of the citadel courtyard. Beyond the guard in front he could see the post of the pyre, the bundles of kindling bristling around its base like a very large and short-handled broom propped upright on the cobblestones. And the angle of their approach meant he wouldn't see up to the balcony where Uther had presided over executions before, until he was at the pyre.

He concentrated on breathing through his nose, controlling the panic that threatened. This was cutting it very close. Alone in his cell, he could allow for a few unsuccessful attempts at this spell. Here and now – no, probably not. He'd have to get it _right_ , the first time.

"Brace your elbows," the guard on his left told him, as the leader of their procession mounted the platform with two long steps and the aid of a stool.

Confused, he obeyed – and the men on either side of him bent to heave him up by his stiffened arms. Reflexively cooperative, he lifted his feet over the brush and felt the platform wobble a bit under his boots. Well, it need only support his weight a short while. It was built to be burned.

The guard already on the platform steadied Merlin with one hand fisted in the front of his shirt – he hissed as the man's fingers raked carelessly across the cuts on his chest – and the chain joining the cuffs on his wrists. Spinning him casually – oh, there was Gaius – he proceeded to unlock one cuff.

"Hands behind your back."

He nodded to Gaius – who was alone, which probably meant Gwen wasn't present, that was good – trying to reassure the old man without alerting the suspicions of anyone else. His mentor looked five years older than when he'd breezed out the door – how many days ago was it? _What could go wrong_ , he'd said to Gaius' usual admonition, _Be careful, Merlin._

Merlin mouthed, _I'm sorry_.

And jerked, gritting his teeth as the guard refastened the cuffs behind him, around the upright beam. His vision whited out as gravity pulled blood down into his hands, his fingertips, and fresh agony throbbed through him.

He desperately wanted to sit down. Or curl up on himself. Anything to ease this hellish pain.

A voice boomed over the courtyard, drawing his attention up. Uther Pendragon, predictably spouting anti-magic spite. Morgana at his right. Openly smirking at Merlin on the pyre.

He sent a quick glance around the ring of torch-bearing guards – no one moving toward him yet – and lifted his gaze to the balcony again. Arthur stood a pace back from the railing Uther clasped with dramatic solemnity, Sir Leon just beside him. The knight was looking at Merlin as well – his expression set and too far for Merlin to make out anything else – but he gave a single nod. Encouragement, support, gratitude? But – _Arthur_.

"Arthur!" Merlin tried to call. The word hurt his throat; it came out raspy and not loud enough.

Uther lifted his own voice. "In accordance with the laws of Camelot you are sentenced to death by fire – which judgment shall be carried out without further delay."

The king nodded. The guards moved forward as one with their torches.

Merlin tried again. "Arthur!"

The prince turned his head slightly away, gaze distant, refusing even to look down to the courtyard.

Oh, he was angry, then.

"I'm sorry!" he hollered hoarsely, up to the balcony. "I tried only to use magic for good! I used it for you!"

The torches dropped among the bundles of kindling, which sparked and caught – the tongues of flame rising and spreading. He could feel the heat, not much smoke yet, dry as the wood was. That was a problem, he could definitely use more smoke.

He could feel Morgana's glare – triumphant, she thought. Her way and Morgause's way clear to again attack the man who had given her everything after her father's death – except confidence in his mercy.

Not quite yet.

He opened his mouth to draw a deeper breath, call once again to his prince – see Merlin, see magic, understand, forgive, don't hate – and inhaled a lungful of smoke. Too much, now, too much - it eddied around him now as the flames licked the edge of the platform. Doubling over to cough, the cuffs and post banged his hands which sent pain spiking through arms shoulders whole damn body, and he gasped more smoke. He could see flickers of orange and yellow through the gaps in the planks of the platform below him. The air was hot as an opened oven; he could feel sweat dripping down him.

Summoning the last of his strength, he straightened and screamed, " _Arthur_!"

Heat and smoke and tears in his eyes made the distant figures waver. But Arthur's chin was clearly lifted, his gaze nearly upward, avoiding Merlin.

 _Are you really this stupid._

 _Magic corrupts your soul._

 _Don't touch me._

Merlin sobbed, his chest tight with more than a lack of breathable air.

Arthur must live. Merlin must protect Arthur. That was truth.

It hadn't been easy to do, hiding his magic as the prince's manservant. It would be harder now, but… if no one was looking for him – Morgana or Uther – it was astonishing what he could get away with.

If no one was looking for him.

Letting his head drop, he whispered a spell – one different to that offered by Gaius as his escape – adding to the fire. _Forbearnan_.

A simple, special variation, one that allowed him to carry fire itself in his open palm, if there was no material to light, anywhere about. Therefore, harmless – though it looked no different – but also, no barrier to the real thing. His fire blazed, mingling with the real thing, engulfing him in a visually explosive inferno.

Hiding him from view.

Another quick spell – _Onlucan me!_ \- and the chains and cuffs would be left behind.

The heat was unbearable, blistering. He gasped out Gaius' spell.

 _Bedyrne me – Astyre me thanonweard!_

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine yawned.

And leaned forward from his lounging seat at the base of a tree to squint through the thick green foliage of early summer at the sun. High noon.

He shifted his position, used the rough bark of the trunk to scratch an itch between his shoulder-blades and gazed at the top of the grain-tower, all that was visible of the village below, from where he waited. The hill-top itself was his focus, not the handful of houses and… the tavern.

Gwaine grinned at the memory. _You and your friend are in a bit of a pickle… I guess I like those odds._

Lazily he crossed his legs at the ankle and flicked an ant from his trousers before crossing his arms over his chest. Too bad about that banished-on-pain-of-death bit; he could use a drink, if only to pass the time. Gaius had been vague on the _when_.

He tried to calculate the odds of someone reporting him to someone who cared enough to bring enough men to accomplish arresting him, before his second round. Simultaneously trying to guess how much longer he'd be waiting – the impossibility of completing either mental task while occupied with the other at least relieving the boredom – when a strong gust of wind rippled across the ridge.

Bringing with it a smell of _smoke_ that had Gwaine startling alert.

And then a sound, that brought him to his feet, searching to identify the point of origin. Repeated – a human noise, and one of distress.

He moved quickly, quietly, his bag slung over his head and one arm, hand on the hilt of his sword. Wary for strangers – Gwaine knew who he was supposed to meet, but not if he'd be alone, necessarily. Followed, perhaps. He saw Merlin's boots first, and rounded the patch of underbrush in a rush.

His newest – only? – friend lay stretched full-length, face-down. Face buried in his arms, hands lifted off the ground – and understandably so, they looked _dunked_ in blood.

And Merlin's clothes were smoking.

Well, that explained that, Gwaine thought, as he leaped forward to smother any possible spark with his hands; Merlin's whole body shuddered, and a single heartbroken sob escaped him. The nature of the crime – death by fire – an unexpected escape, and a sudden arrival.

"Magic, huh?" he said aloud. "Magic in Camelot. A bit like a servant trying to steal swords from a couple of crooked nobles. Hey. Merlin? It's all right – you're safe and away. I'm here – Gwaine – remember?"

Merlin stilled, turned his head sideways on his arms to show a couple of merging bruises and sweat-streaked soot on his face. "Gwaine," he said. No surprise, no curiosity. Because evidently he hadn't completely left Camelot, yet. "He wouldn't look at me."

Gwaine sat back on his heels and patted his young friend's shoulder – for a different reason this time. "Yeah, it's a shame," he said, without knowing who Merlin meant. "Can you turn over? Sit up? Let me have a look at you?"

Merlin regarded him with a dull eye, then rolled – but struggled to sit up, without using his hands.

Gwaine reached for his wrist to help him. "This okay?"

"It's blistered," Merlin told him. Gwaine shifted his offered grip, further down the forearm, raised his eyebrows questioningly. "Just bruised there."

Wrapping his hand carefully around Merlin's arm, he pulled the young man to sitting, and saw that the front of his shirt was filthy, smeared with detritus from the forest floor, soot and blood.

"Aerldan's a bastard," Gwaine pronounced, letting Merlin just sit for a moment, before he encouraged further action.

Take care of him, the old man had said – he was beginning to see that Merlin had been injured in spirit as well as body. Gwaine suspected it would only get worse. He'd never had a home, but he assumed it would be ten times worse, forced to leave instead of making the decision freely for valid reasons.

"Who's that," Merlin said, after a pause. Completely without interest. Well, Gwaine hoped water – and soap maybe – and a bit of something to eat, might help. Though his hands were definitely going to need a physician's attention, and soon.

"Your questioner," Gwaine said, and Merlin's head swung round.

"You know him."

He guessed it was a question, though the inflection was wrong, and gave Merlin a wolfish grin. "My life isn't always a full cup courtesy of a pretty girl, my friend. Can you stand up and walk?" Merlin considered, and Gwaine read _disinclination to move_ all over him. "Come on," he went on, bouncing up from his crouch. "Your back all right? Just push with your feet and I'll –" Pushing against Merlin's weight as the younger man obeyed, he helped him stagger to his feet without falling. "And there you go. Come on, there's a stream just this way."

Merlin followed in silence; glancing back, Gwaine judged it best to leave questions of his own for another day, unless the younger man volunteered a conversation, himself.

"Just down here," he said. "Watch your step on this rock. Here." He stepped over the pace-wide stream to allow Merlin to approach. "We probably don't have time for you to take a full bath – but your hands, mate. We have to do something about that."

Merlin squatted down, stretching trembling hands toward the trickling water without making contact. "We don't have time?" he repeated. "Gwaine, you got a cook-pot of some kind in that pack? Even a flat-pan?"

"I've got a small one." Gwaine shrugged out of the strap of his bag and rummaged. "I suppose they can't track whatever trick you pulled to escape, can they? Here you go." He made to hand Merlin the pot, hesitated, then asked awkwardly, "What did you want done with this?" He was going to have to remember, with hands like that, Merlin was probably not going to be able to do much for himself for a good long while.

"Can you fill it with water?" Merlin said.

Gwaine knelt and let the faint current of the water pull the lower lip of the pot under, careful not to catch anything of the stream-bed. "But…" He held the full pot out, "They're going to have soldiers combing these woods for a sorcerer on the loose."

Merlin froze, a vaguely hunted look coming into his eyes, as if he hadn't realized life on the run meant, sometimes, exactly that.

Half a heartbeat later, Gwaine realized he'd misread his friend's apprehension – it was for _Gwaine's_ knowledge of his identity and crime. For answer, he grinned and offered the pot again. And didn't flinch – much – when Merlin's eyes glowed gold and the pot floated from Gwaine's grip to nestle in the rocks at Merlin's feet. Another brief glow, and Merlin dipped one corner of the heel of his hand in the water – testing the temperature for an adjustment? He hadn't spoken a single spell. _Damn_.

"No, they won't." Merlin's fingers were curled loosely toward his palm. He ventured – hesitated – gritted his teeth – then dipped his hand into the still water, slowly but completely.

Gwaine dabbled his own fingers – the stream was quite cool, it felt good to him but – he cringed in sympathy and planned on sacrificing his extra shirt for bandages, once Merlin's hands were cleaned a bit. Merlin bit his lips together, white as a sheet under bruises and grime, and turned his head slightly. His whole body was shaking, shaking – gradually oh-so-slowly relaxing into the pain.

"They won't?" Gwaine said.

The look Merlin gave him was grim. "Gaius will know," he said, between clenched teeth. "But no one else will come looking." He ducked his head to watch as he swirled his hand gently and slowly. "All the rest… think I'm dead."

… **..*…..**

 **A/N: This story is loosely plotted in three parts (more or less coinciding with the three episodes I'm writing around). This – or next chapter maybe - is the end of part 1, which means I can reasonably estimate around 18-20 chapters. Or so.**

And, Msomaji, since you didn't log in to leave the last review – thanks a bunch! Glad you 'enjoyed' the torture scene – hope you enjoyed the 'escape' as much?! And in answer to your wondering about Arthur and Gwen in regards to Morgana, yes, and gradually.

And, thanks for other reviewers that I didn't or couldn't answer in a PM – I appreciate you all, and honestly I'm surprised and pleased by the amount of comments!


	7. Comprehending Loss

**Chapter 7: Comprehending Loss**

Merlin was clean and bandaged. His belly full of more than his half of the dinner Gwaine had fixed and as much as he wanted of the cool stream water.

Still it was a horrible night.

He couldn't get comfortable, and shifting hurt. He tried lying on his back with his wrists propped on his ribs. He tried lying on either side, the lower hand resting gently on its back so the fingers could curl upward from the ground, the other dangling over his side. He tried lying on his – nope, couldn't lie chest-down, either.

As the darkness lifted slowly toward dawn, and the birds twittered and hopped and called – night prowlers returned to sleep the daylight away and curious day-dwellers began to rustle about, Merlin shivered. Feeling dull-witted and feverish, anxious and lazy at once.

Nothing to do, and he was bored. The first morning in – as long as he could remember – when he could lie and doze as long as he liked, and he couldn't sleep. Hadn't gotten enough sleep.

Dawn. He saw it behind his eyelids and couldn't help thinking of the prince he served. Had served, so long – still served? There would be no grouching back and forth until it became a good morning for both of them. He was no longer responsible for making a hundred decisions that affected Arthur's day in miniscule but very real ways; he was no longer responsible for trailing Arthur everywhere, physically clumsy and magically alert for any threat.

He realized he had no idea what Arthur would be doing today. What he was supposed to be doing, and how he might decide to change his schedule, on a whim.

It made him feel horribly empty and lost. His eyes burned; clutching bandaged hands to faintly-throbbing chest, he rolled to his side and drew his knees up.

Then realized, he couldn't hear Gwaine snoring. He opened his eyes to see his friend's blanket tucked in a neat roll where he'd stretched for the night. He could hear voices, though – and recognized them both.

Relief and a second wave of stinging sensation kept his eyes shut, even after he could hear what they said.

"… Told me, no one would be looking for him but you. So we spent some time yesterday afternoon after we ate, getting him cleaned up, though I expect he'll be happy for a change of clothes. I said, he was on his own with his lower half – just joking, you know – and he said to me, what makes you think I need to use my hands."

"So he seems in good spirits?"

"Hells, Gaius… I don't know. Relatively speaking." Merlin could hear their crunching footfalls. "For a man's who's been tortured and executed – yeah I'd say he's pretty cheerful."

Merlin could not stop his lips from twisting into a small, reluctant smile, and rolled a little further onto his elbow, trying to get his legs into position to maneuver himself upright the rest of the way.

"There, he's awake now," Gwaine's voice said, and Merlin turned to see the outlaw's merry grin and his old mentor's suspiciously moist-eyed glare.

"Merlin!" the old man said. "I might have died of the shock – why did you wait so long to use that transportation spell?"

"He left it a bit late, yeah?" Gwaine interjected. "His clothes were smoking, when I found him, and his boots are in a right state."

"They think I'm dead," Merlin said, making it to his knees. "That's best for everyone, don't you think?"

"Don't get up," Gaius told him. He handed a basket he carried on one elbow to Gwaine, and came to kneel – slowly and with some difficulty – next to Merlin, laying out his round physician's case in readiness. "Your chest, and your hands, if you please," he said. "I presume the bruising isn't bad enough to need my care?"

"There's a lot of it," Merlin said, cooperating with Gaius' insistent help removing the thin cheap shirt they'd given him – also intended to be burnt. "It hurts, but… nothing that can't heal on its own."

Gaius pressed his lips together at the first glance of the cuts on his chest, then inspected the bruising striping Merlin's eyes with a critical eye – purple welts, fading to yellow-brown at the edges. "Yes, I think you're right," he said. "Gwaine, perhaps you can let that alone long enough to get some water?"

Gwaine looked up from the basket, a small loaf of bread in his hand and a bite in his mouth. He mumbled a good-natured affirmative and stepped to them, pinching a good-sized bite which he offered for Merlin.

"Thanks," Merlin said, obligingly opening his mouth, and mumbled, "Save me some more?" Gwaine gave a nod and wave, snagging the pot and loping off toward the stream. "So it looked real enough?" he said, as Gaius began to poke at one area and another of the rune-cuts.

"I almost believed it," Gaius said. "I wasn't sure until Gwaine reassured me, just now."

"And – Arthur?" Merlin kept his gaze past the physician, focused on the first fork in the trunk of a willow tree, thirty paces distant.

"What would you like me to say to him?" Gaius asked. "I haven't seen him yet today."

After a pause, Merlin said, "I don't want him to know. He won't understand why he can't tell Morgana, and it'll kill him to keep it from Gwen, and if she knows then Morgana will figure it out – and then the whole thing was for nothing. If they think I'm dead… then I'm free."

"Merlin, what if he asks… other questions?" Gaius said, beginning to mix a paste in a palm-sized wooden bowl Merlin anticipated would bring relief to the skin of his chest. "You told Aerldan – quite a bit, it sounded like. Uther discounted it entirely, but Arthur recognized parts of it as truth."

Merlin switched his gaze to Gwaine, approaching now with the extra water. "I trust you," he said. "Tell him the truth." But speaking of telling the truth… "You've got to write to my mother," he added to Gaius, who was now fiddling with cleaning cloths and a small jar of honey that would help prevent infection. "She should know I'm alive. I don't think Uther would bother sending anyone, but… just in case?"

"I will," Gaius promised. "I suppose I should give her some idea, what you expect to do?"

Gwaine, who'd evidently heard enough to catch the gist of their conversation, gave Merlin a sharpish expectant look as he set down the pot of water convenient to Gaius' hand. But said only, "If you want it warm…"

"Somewhere between air and body temperature," Gaius requested, with a nod to show which young man he addressed.

Merlin gave the water a deliberate glance. It was a bit odd, doing magic in front of someone not Gaius, and by request of the old man who always preached such caution. Well. There would be no more hiding – now that he was in hiding. Almost, it was amusing.

"If you are heading for Ealdor, you can carry my letter yourself," Gaius added, dipping a bit of the warmer water into his paste, giving it a brisk stir, then beginning to smear it – surprisingly gently – over Merlin's cuts.

"Ealdor, is that your home?" Gwaine asked, setting back to watch, without offense.

Merlin answered carefully. "It's where my mother lives."

"Fancy a visit? I promise I'll behave." Merlin said nothing, and Gwaine's grin slipped a bit – he exchanged a quick look with Gaius. "If you haven't got anywhere in mind, mate, I know half a dozen places we'd be fairly welcome – and two or three more your magic would be appreciated."

Welcome. Appreciated.

Incongruous memory. His first week in Camelot, and still without a job, making enemies, it seemed, before he made friends. Arthur calling out sardonically, _Oh, don't walk_ away.

 _I'm happy to be your servant_. Heaven and hell and everywhere in between. _Until the day I die._

"Give this another day or two, wash it, then you can it open," Gaius told him, not pushing Merlin's decision. "I might've put a stitch or two in if I'd had it to do, right away, but for now… there seems to be no infection."

"Is it going to scar?" Gwaine said.

"Probably not the whole thing," Gaius answered. "One or two lines might be slower to fade."

Several moments of silence passed – leisurely, and weighted.

Then Merlin said quietly, "I'm not leaving. Gwaine, please don't feel you have to stay, if you don't want to – I know it's dangerous for you to be in Camelot." Gwaine snorted. "But… he probably wouldn't last a day without me." He tried to smile at Gaius.

Then Gwaine spoke. "He. Arthur? Was it him that wouldn't look at you?"

Merlin felt a pain in his chest that had nothing to do with the paste or bandages Gaius was winding, preparing to tie. He didn't know what reaction he betrayed, but the old man glanced up to his face, and sat back, letting his hands rest momentarily in his lap.

"I want to tell you something, Merlin, and I didn't think it should influence your decision, of what to do now. Yesterday before your execution, Uther ordered me to dose Arthur with a type of sedative. He was awake, throughout, but it would have felt more like a dream to him, than reality."

Merlin closed his eyes and saw his prince, standing on the balcony just behind the king pronouncing sentence – motionless and inattentive. And understood.

"Why would –" Gwaine began.

"He didn't want Arthur to make a scene," Gaius said.

Merlin opened his eyes to search his mentor's lined face as if it could convey all the hope back to him, that had gone out of his world. "A scene?"

"I suspect," Gaius said, flipping his fingers as a wordless command for Merlin to extend his own, "that Arthur was making his own plans for your escape, Merlin."

"He wasn't angry?" Merlin said, shivering as he obeyed.

"He might be after today," Gaius said grimly.

Merlin closed his eyes as the old physician began to remove the bandages. It had been bad enough, shaking and sweating and biting his mouth shut as Gwaine wrapped them – he just knew this would be worse.

He was right.

"You can boil these bandages and re-use them," Gaius told Gwaine, soaking some areas that stuck, teasing each layer loose with a gentleness that still sent shocks of pain shooting up Merlin's arms. "For today, I brought clean ones."

"Can't you just – use magic?" Gwaine said.

Gaius shook his head regretfully, and Merlin answered, "Mine doesn't work on myself. That way." He propped his forearms along his thighs to help still the involuntary trembling that likely was making the process harder for Gaius.

By the time the physician got to the last fingers on Merlin's left hand – the one pinned under the thumbscrew – Merlin was covered in perspiration and gritting his teeth to keep from losing that one bite of bread. Ignoring the moisture that trickled in occasional drops from the corners of his eyes. Gaius looked at his smallest finger for a moment, then met Merlin's eyes.

Yes. He'd been afraid of that. He gave the old man a quick nod – instead of reassuring him, it only seemed to deepen Gaius' sorrow.

"You'd better have this before I do anything else," Gaius said, twisting to his case to retrieve a little glass dose-bottle.

Merlin took it awkwardly in the curve at the base of his thumb. "It'll knock me out?" he confirmed. Gaius nodded, and Merlin downed it in one swallow, sighing as he handed it back.

"You'll want to lie down," the physician advised, and Gwaine reached to straighten Merlin's blanket behind him, support his head as he relaxed back. "I made that one quite strong, on purpose."

"Thank you," Merlin said. He could feel that, too. Everything going soft and fuzzy, no reason to keep his eyes open. A pleasant spinning, sinking sensation. He felt also, Gaius gently spreading his fingers, touching them close to his palm, where it didn't hurt as much, as his muscles relaxed completely and almost involuntarily. It seemed to him that he was retreating, somehow, from the darkness – or through it, maybe.

"Merlin, can you still hear me?"

He meant to answer. But then consciousness ended.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine watched Merlin, and Gaius both. Watched Merlin go limp by degrees, watched Gaius watch Merlin succumb to the effects of the draught, and let his query, "Can you still hear me?" go unanswered.

"What do you think?" Gwaine asked.

"Could you come here, please," the physician said. "I set the dislocations yesterday morning, they should heal just fine. These two are fractured, I believe, though the bones are still in place – later on I'll need you to find a piece of willow bark, as long as his hand and slightly curved, to strap to those fingers and protect them as they heal."

Gwaine remembered there had been a willow not that far from their campsite, with its bark was peeling a bit from the trunk. He visually measured his friend's hand, and observed, "He's missing that fingernail."

"And this one will likely come off by itself within a week or so." Gaius pointed out Merlin's left forefinger. Scabbed blood at the very tip, bruising and swelling halfway to his hand, the nail discolored. "It's this one, that concerns me."

Gwaine knew without indication which one the physician referred to. Merlin's left last finger. "What are you going to do?"

Gaius made no move to begin. "The screw ground the bone of his last joint into… several pieces. Impossible to re-form, you understand me? I would do it if I could, but…"

"You've got to remove it," Gwaine realized. And wished he hadn't eaten anything yet that morning. He swallowed hard - or ever. _Hells_.

"You're going to have to hold his arm," Gaius told him.

Gwaine shuffled between the physician and the patient to obey, leaving the old man clear access to Merlin's hand. "I swear," he said, turning his face toward Merlin's, and away from the outstretched hand. "I'm going to hunt that bastard down and kill him slowly."

"Aerldan?" Gaius said, his voice absent as he focused on his work. "No need. Merlin killed him. Or rather, the results of his abuse of Merlin and his magic, killed him."

"Damn," Gwaine said. Trying not to think about the procedure going on behind him, or the sounds. "He's not really a servant, is he?" Memory flashed – Merlin coming through the door balancing a breakfast tray for Gwaine, lounging in the younger man's own bed – Merlin grinning at him, one arm down inside a high boot, the other employing the brush efficiently and expertly. "Or rather," he amended, "He's not _just_ a servant."

"What do you mean?"

Merlin's eyebrows twitched faintly, drawing together momentarily; he squirmed a bit beneath Gwaine's grip.

"The first time I met him, and Arthur," Gwaine said. "Merlin jumped right into a bar fight without blinking. And when those two knights – who really weren't knights – had him cornered to torment him with throwing knives… I've known servants, Gaius. A servant finds a safe corner and watches horrified. A servant doesn't even consider getting involved. Merlin's a fighter, too, isn't he."

"Heaven bless him." Gaius blew out a breath of air in a sigh. "He has had to learn to be. Okay, make sure he doesn't move, now."

…..*….. …..*….. …*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur woke to the sounds of his curtains opening, and the glare of well-past-dawn sunlight. He groaned eloquently, struggling out from the thick fogginess behind his eyes, and his blankets.

This didn't feel normal for morning. What had happened?

He heard the faint but identifiable clink of dishes moved from tray to table, in the other part of his chamber. Merlin was being quiet – he was only quiet when Arthur was seriously injured, or seriously drunk. He felt no pain; it must be the latter. Morgana's birthday feast, maybe? He thought it was still three days away… two? four?

"What day is it?" he mumbled, not really expecting an answer. "Merlin?" He raised his voice, managing to kick his feet over the side of his bed, and rubbed his eyes.

"Ah – no, sire." An unfamiliar voice. Arthur straightened, dropping his hands and blinking – a man somewhere between young and middle-aged, brown hair so curly it was like a layer of fuzz over his head. "I'm – Orryn? I'm to be your new manservant, my lord, if it pleases you?"

"Where's Merlin?" he said stupidly, even as the events of the past few days filtered through memory. The magic – the arrest – the trial. Aerldan – it got foggier – Leon. He was quite sure he and Leon had planned to…

Orryn nervously plucked at the bottom hem of his jacket, head bowed so Arthur couldn't see his face. "Um. Mer – um, your previous manservant is… is… gone, my lord."

"Gone?"

"Yes my lord." Orryn rushed on, a bit desperately. "Would it please you to rise? I have your breakfast tray ready, and His Majesty suggested a visit with the physician today before you left the citadel at all and I think Sir Leon was coming to escort you but your clothing –"

Merlin was gone. Good. And yes, he needed to see Leon, then, ask him what he had done in Arthur's… absence. Was that why his head felt so thick, then, this morning – whatever Gaius had given him for the pain of his headache had knocked him out entirely. He shook his head – no pain this morning, but… hells, he couldn't shake the impression that he'd had awful nightmares.

Arthur dodged Orryn to fling open the wardrobe himself. He grabbed the first pair of trousers he found that he knew weren't ceremonial, and the first shirt – dark blue – not bothering with the dressing screen either, in his haste. Stepping right back into the boots he'd kicked off to change his clothes.

"My lord, you're supposed to –" Orryn stammered, as Arthur leaned over the table to stuff a quick sausage in his mouth and pick up two biscuits one-handed. "Wait for… my lord, have you orders for me?"

Arthur paused at the door. "I don't know – yes – I don't know," he said; he didn't have time for this.

Months he'd spent tossing careless orders at Merlin without concern for his servant's familiarity with his way around the palace, location of supplies, identity of other people involved, or the performance of the chore itself. Merlin had very nearly trained himself, trial and error, based on Arthur's abusive correction – or lack of it – keeping and learning his job through sheer stubbornness and unwillingness to quit. Attributes that Arthur suspected few other servants possessed. He regretted his treatment of the younger man now, but… he had no time for Orryn, today.

"Make yourself useful here," he suggested, closing the door behind him on the man's stunned look.

"Sire, you need an escort," the guard outside his door said, uncertain in his surprise – probably he hadn't expected Arthur to emerge for the better part of an hour, after Orryn had gone in with the breakfast tray.

"Come with me, then," Arthur tossed over his shoulder, not waiting.

"I can't… leave my post…" he heard as he strode around the corner, alone.

To learn Sir Leon's whereabouts, it was best to check with the duty officer, who kept a desk and shelf of records in a closet-sized alcove off the corridor leading to the side courtyard. Arthur schooled his expression to one of princely neutrality as he passed servants and others in the halls, hastily consuming his biscuits when there was no one near.

And halfway down the last gallery, he glimpsed Leon through one of the open arches, heading for the grand stair and the citadel's main entrance. Good, now he didn't have to ask; he quickened his steps.

"Sir Leon!" he called out, as he trotted around the corner.

Leon turned immediately – and there was something wrong with his expression. Something that made Arthur hesitated in instinctive alarm – and then his gaze was drawn to something almost between them, on the cobbles of the courtyard.

A great charry smear. As of a fire, whose ashes have been shoveled and carried away in buckets, but the stones had not been rinsed or scrubbed or sanded, yet.

As of a… pyre.

Leon was forgotten in a moment of desperate struggle for memory. Merlin was… gone. Escaped, right? rescued? The balcony – the fire – had been a dream. Hadn't it?

Arthur stopped when the toes of his boots reached the edge of the ash-smeared circle, staring down and willing sense to emerge, as all color leached from the world around him, to the gray of stone and the black of cinder-dust. Something glinted between two stones; he stepped and crouched to pry it free without knowing quite why he did it. He held it up between blackened thumb and forefinger.

He knew what it was instantly, though he continued to stare. Wishing, hoping, praying for reality to change, for the dream to end, for him to awaken to Merlin's annoying cheer. This sense of impending dread, inescapable horror, as he'd felt seeing Merlin in the prisoner's chair, intensified nauseatingly.

A buckle. One he'd seen almost every day for more than three years now, though he'd never noticed just how familiar it had become. One of Merlin's boot buckles. Which could only mean…

No. No nonono…

He lost his balance, suddenly, and had to put both knees and his free hand down to keep from falling. He cupped the buckle carefully in his palm, waiting for it to tell him a different story.

Because no. It couldn't be true.

A shadow fell across him, and he looked to see Leon reaching for him. Instinctively he gripped the knight's forearm, but he didn't rise. "Merlin – he's gone, right," he said desperately. " _Escaped_ , right, not… not…"

"He's dead, sire," Leon said in an almost-whisper. "I'm so, so –"

Arthur's head dropped of its own accord; he felt suddenly twice as heavy, and entirely without hope. "They killed him."

"Arthur," Leon said. Hands now on Arthur's upper arms. "You can't – do this here. Not here, where everyone can see you." He allowed Leon, then, to draw him up to standing, and looked at the knight's hand on his sleeve.

Not a dream. All ye gods above, it hadn't been a dream.

"Leon," he said. His voice sounded strange in his ears. "They took my friend, and I didn't even notice."

Leon's face twisted, a bit. "Yes, my lord." He'd known, then, about whatever had been done to Arthur during the... _during_.

Arthur didn't hold that against the knight, or the failure to rescue Merlin. That was on him. For the rest of his life.

"Did Morgana know? Guinevere?"

"Probably." The word was spoken without much certainty.

Arthur's feet began to walk. His hand felt at his hip – no sword. That was fine. Where he was going, it would do him no good.

Two other incidents came to mind, times when he'd done what he was about to do – he allowed the recollection, even knowing it distanced him from a different realization too enormous, right now. The first, when Gaius at Uther's order had dosed Arthur and locked him in his room – not to carry out an execution Arthur had contested, but to risk his own life in a mortal duel.

 _I believed you would die, and that was a risk I could not take – you are too precious to me._

Did it not matter to Uther, who Arthur found precious? Even if he took after his father and never admitted it. Rarely showed it.

The second, then. When he blamed his father for the loss of someone irreplaceable also, someone he felt the lack of after two decades and more. His mother.

He'd gone in to his father armed that day, after the witch with her foul sorcery had shown him an image of his mother. It had been Merlin to follow him that day. Remind him that magic was not to be trusted- _why did you turn to it, then, Merlin, why; it was your death also_ – open his eyes with earnest eloquence to see, this was not the answer.

Arthur found himself at the double oaken doors where his father held court in the mornings – informal meetings, short-notice audiences. There was no Merlin to stop him now – and it was his father's own fault.

He shoved the doors open.

"Arthur," his father greeted him evenly, almost warily. Did his gaze flicker briefly to Arthur's empty hip? Arthur was distantly aware that others in the room were drawing back.

"You killed Merlin," he said.

"A criminal's execution sentence was carried out yesterday, that is correct." The king looked away from him and waved a hand to indicate his wish that they two should be left alone.

No one should overhear this. A tiny rational honorable-prince part of his mind agreed. The rest of him snarled, _why the hell not. Let everyone hear_.

"You killed. My servant."

"Your servant had confessed to breaking a law that carries a capital punishment, Arthur," Uther reminded him, tapping his fingers impatiently on the pages before him.

"You killed my friend." He kept himself from screaming it, with an effort.

Instead of arguing that the status of _servant_ precluded that of _friend_ , Uther snapped, "You should have chosen a better friend."

This time, Arthur screamed. " _There is no better friend_!" And gripped the back of the nearest chair hard enough to make his fingers ache, to mimic the control he took over the emotions that threatened. "You had Gaius drug me."

"Of course I did," Uther said, at once tolerant and dismissive. "I expected you would be difficult about it."

"No." Arthur realized something else, right that moment. Because Uther could have had Arthur put to sleep and locked in, as before. "No, you had Gaius give me something to make me compliant. To make me _complicit_. To stand on that balcony at your side before all the townspeople, quiet as a mouse, while you burned my servant. My friend. As if I _agreed_ with you."

Uther leaned his elbows on the table in front of him, fitting his fingers together into one big fist. "You mean to say you don't?"

Arthur stared at him. He'd argued that Guinevere – if she had used magic to heal her father – had done so with the best of intentions and should be given mercy. He'd helped Morgana sneak the druid child back to his people – he had yet to meet a corrupt druid; presumably they had safeguards in place to prevent corruption from use of magic, but it was a razor-fine line they walked and he had to believe they knew what they risked.

"I hardly ever agreed with you, where Merlin was concerned," he heard himself say, and realized it was true.

"Well. Good riddance then." Uther turned his attention back to his papers.

And that was why Arthur was glad he wasn't armed. Merlin hadn't wanted Arthur to kill his father over the grief he felt at the loss of his mother. He thought it a pretty fair guess Merlin would not want this, either.

 _Don't hate, no matter what. You're better than that._

After a moment of Arthur controlling himself ruthlessly and silently, Uther looked up, wearily resigned. "Look, Arthur, what's done is done. And you'd do well to think of your responsibilities to the law, once you become king. You cannot pick and choose when to apply it and when not, else it means nothing. And surely this incident is proof of the vigilance necessary against sorcery – anyone can be tempted, for any number of reasons, and succumb."

It seemed to Arthur that though the words, taken individually, should be true, yet there was something in how they were put together, that sounded _wrong_.

 _His life isn't worthless, it's worth less than yours. This boy won't be the last to die for you, when you are king._

The sort of thing, he'd look over his shoulder as he left the room and say, _What do you think, Merlin?_ And somewhere in his servant's peculiar babbling and peasant's simplicity, he'd find the insight that initially eluded him.

But Merlin was gone.

"Father, I…" He couldn't bring himself to say _excuse me_ , or to apologize for his interruption. "I'm… not feeling quite myself. I think I'll pay a visit to our court physician."

"Good idea, Arthur, but… no theatrics with Gaius, if you please?" Uther's smile was complacent. "You mustn't blame him if he is more obedient to his sovereign's command than the boy was. He's been quite understanding and cooperative with this whole incident – you might learn something from him."

Arthur bowed his head briefly before turning to stalk from the room. Yes, he'd keep his temper – it wasn't really Gaius' fault, after all, and Arthur's responsibility to get Merlin to safety – but. He fully intended to learn something from Gaius, too.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin woke to a sense of hot thickness, throbbing uncomfortably through his head, through his hands. And slurred Gaius' name, without trying to move.

"He's coming round." Gwaine was still there.

He blinked up at a smear of green, felt the earth warm and hard beneath his back. And his left hand pulsed with fresh agony, sharper and clearer with every beat of his heart.

"Merlin?"

He blinked a little more clarity into his vision, and turned his head to focus on the old man. Gaius was on his left; he couldn't help his gaze dropping to his hand, to the little finger – shorter now by an inch or so, maybe, he couldn't tell because of the bandaging.

"Merlin, I am… sorrier than I can say. It had to be done… you will heal, now. I know you know this, but I'm going to remind you anyway. There will be pain, swelling, stiffness – especially in that finger. The breaks can heal in four to six weeks, but that last one maybe two weeks longer until you regain full normal function. If you're determined to remain in Camelot…"

He managed to nod. He thought, a little water, in a little while, and he'd be capable of speaking, again. Right now he felt sick to his stomach at the mere thought of his hand.

"I will return in two or three days," Gaius went on. "Until then, rest your hands, keep them elevated – but work the unaffected joints periodically, up to and including your shoulder. Watch for signs of infection, and the amount of bleeding – some will be normal. After that, I can leave town to meet you – here or somewhere - maybe twice a week, without arousing suspicion."  
"News and supplies?" Gwaine suggested. "We're not going to be able to go to market."

Gaius nodded. "As I have to gather my own herbs now, I don't think anyone will wonder too much at more frequent absences."

"I can… still do that… for you," Merlin offered, in a slow whisper. He lifted his right hand slightly, feeling the clumsy sensation of thorough bandaging. "Probably. Before too long."

"I'll help out," Gwaine promised. "I might even arrange something to repay you, in addition to leaves and flowers? Something of the meat and fur sort?"

"My concern is for the two of you," Gaius told him. "I have managed on my own for many years, after all."

"We'll survive," Gwaine said, reaching to give Merlin's shoulder a pat as he still lay flat on the blanket.

Merlin's throat was tight. He couldn't help but feel he'd let Gaius down, somehow – having to leave him, too. "I should've been more careful," he whispered. "I'm sorry."

Gaius' expression softened into a rueful smile, the one he wore when Merlin was laughing right out loud at something and he couldn't quite resist joining in. "Nothing happens without a reason, my boy," he told Merlin. "Good will come of even this. You'll see."

Merlin nodded, rumpling his blanket under the back of his head. Circumstances had seemed impossible before, but…

Trust… hope… wait.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Once again, Arthur found the physician's quarters empty. He exchanged a look with Leon, who'd shadowed him here as well – probably under orders not to leave him unescorted; Arthur didn't ask and he didn't say – thinking of the knight's suggestion the last time they waited here for Gaius.

Maybe he just… left.

While they waited, Arthur paced. Once he allowed himself to glance three stairs up, at the closed door of the Merlin's room. Let himself think, with a pang of anger-regret-guilt-sorrow, of Merlin's things, which Gaius would probably have to deal with, at some point. Get rid of, at some point, because why would you keep them.

He wondered if he should go up there – not today and probably not anytime soon… then again, he never had reason to, before Merlin. No one would remark on it if he just… never went up there again.

Then he thought of Merlin's mother. He'd have to face her. Sometime.

And he was suddenly tired to death, and collapsed on a bench by Gaius' table. Leon remained tactfully silent.

It wasn't long, really, until the old man pushed through the door, head down and shoulders bowed, the strap of his physician's case over one shoulder and an empty basket over the other elbow. He shuffled inside and closed the door, leaving his open hand on it for a moment, before turning to find his company.

"Good morning, Gaius," Arthur said evenly. "Or should I say, afternoon? You've been busy already today."

"Fennel," the old man stated unapologetically. "Dragonwort, and rosemary. I have my own supplies to procure now, you know."

Arthur felt a bit selfish, remembering how many times Merlin had run errands for the old man, also. And a bit guilty. And a bit resentful. "But your basket is empty."

"Clearly I was unsuccessful, then," Gaius snapped. And almost immediately relented from his mood, coming toward Arthur. "I am sorry, sire, this hasn't been easy on any of us. How is your head?"

"Fine." Arthur avoided Gaius' hands, standing and moving away. _It's my heart that's the problem._ Rather blindly, he poked at the clutter on the room's second table. "That wasn't only a tonic for the pain you gave me yesterday, Gaius."

Pause. "No." Another pause. "Your father –"

"I know. I've already spoken to him this morning." Arthur turned, leaning carefully back against the table, gripping the edge to remind himself, this was actually happening. As hellishly impossible as it seemed, this was all real. "My friend died right in front of me, Gaius, and I didn't even notice."

Gaius deflated a bit. "You might prefer not to remember the event, my lord."

That, Arthur reflected, was very likely truth. "How could you do that to him, though, Gaius?" he asked, more gently. "It must have looked to him like I didn't care."

"You mustn't concern yourself too much," Gaius returned in much the same way, crossing to stand nearer him. "If he minded, it wasn't for long."

Arthur dropped his head and dug his nails into the wood of the table to keep his sob silently within his chest.

"His last words yesterday in the courtyard." The old man's voice was so soft Leon couldn't have heard it from his place by the door. "Were for you, Arthur. He said he was sorry. That he used magic only for good. For you."

Arthur nodded to show he'd heard, that he'd taken in the words. His fault. It was his responsibility, to see that his servant upheld, rather than broke, the law. To make sure he understood the danger of magic, to protect him from the consequences of a well-intentioned mistake.

But. Arthur lifted his head to look at Gaius. Who didn't seem to show much remorse – though he ought to have shared all those responsibilities.

"If you hadn't followed that order," he said hoarsely. "If you had told me what my father ordered, so I could decide for myself – we might have been able to save him, Gaius. We might have been able to help him, and he might be alive right now, somewhere out there, alive and well how could you? If you had any hint that he was interested in using magic –"

"Prince Arthur." The old man drew himself up with all the stern authority of his years and experience. "You may return to ask such questions when you are ready for the answers but for now I'll thank you not to imply that I didn't care for my boy! Please excuse me, I expect to be very busy today."

He glared at them both; Leon opened the door and Arthur found himself leaving without another word, or backward glance.


	8. Feasting and Fighting

**Chapter 8: Feasting and Fighting**

Arthur dreamed of Merlin.

He dreamed they were walking through a field of ripening wheat, toward Camelot – and for some reason, Merlin was in the lead by nine or ten paces. With his back to Arthur. Stalking like he was upset – and Merlin was so rarely upset, it bothered Arthur. In the dream, Arthur called to him – _slow down, wait._

 _Look at me._

In the dream, Arthur struggled to move faster, to catch up, but he was wearing his ceremonial chainmail and the thick-growing grain caught at his boots like water. He glanced down at his footing – and when he looked back up he was alone.

The sun was shining. The white stone of the citadel gleamed perfection. The harvest rich all around him, and not a single hint of threat. It ought to have been idyllic.

But he was alone.

Gwen found him, the second afternoon, startling him with her call of his name from behind. A quick glance as she hurried to join him told him they were alone for the moment, before she reached him. And he reached for her.

He felt her shake with quiet tears. "I am so, so sorry," he said into her hair.

She leaned back to look up at him, lovely in spite of crying. "It wasn't your fault, Arthur, it wasn't. He wouldn't want you to blame yourself." He managed a nod; his throat was obstructed with a sudden and painful lump. She nestled into his embrace again, a quieter comfort. "I can't believe he's gone," she added. "Every corner I turn I look for him – twice today someone said my name and I thought it was him… somehow."

"Guinevere," he said, in the tone of _please-stop_.

"Oh! it must be even harder for you, he was with you almost all the time," she realized. "Morgana said you got to see him, just before – were they right, about… about… that he was _broken_? I didn't see him – _during_ – I couldn't watch –"

He said her name again, in desperation. The warmth of her concern was going to melt the façade he'd constructed, to appear strong and in control until it was the truth and he didn't have to pretend anymore. "I can't… I can't do this right now."

"Yes, of course, you're right," she said, stepping away to quickly whisk tears from her cheeks and wrinkles from her dress. The lavender one he thought might be his favorite, he recognized distantly. "But Arthur, when you're ready to talk – and you know you should sometime – I am here for you."

"And I for you," he said huskily.

She twitched a shrug, beginning to back away. "I can talk to Morgana," she said. "Arthur – he believed you would make a great king, someday. The best thing you can do now, for him, is… try to make him proud of you? Because he was, you know… quite proud of you."

After that, Arthur had to go to the training field and beat hell and the straw stuffing out of two training dummies.

He dreamed it was raining. Pouring rain, and he was on the training field bludgeoning an old set of armor fastened to a pole, hacking like a first-time squire desperate to prove strength and resolve.

In his dream, he was desperate to exorcise the demons of anger and guilt and frustration over helplessness and loss. Because physical exhaustion brought a faint if illogical sense of accomplishment. That he was desperate for.

Miserable and soaked and angry at the senselessness of death, still he felt – in the dream – as if he turned to look over his right shoulder, Merlin would be there. Leaning against the wall, offering neither hand nor word as if he too recognized the great uselessness of everything that Arthur felt, but _there_. Soaked with Arthur – _I didn't want you to feel like you were alone_ – life seemed futile but when it was shared, it was worthwhile.

But, in the dream, Arthur could not turn. He knew Merlin was there, waiting and suffering with him, but a faint dread whispered around him, _if you don't turn and look, if you don't see him, he'll soon be gone. He'll leave. He'll vanish, like a wisp of smoke in the rain._

He struggled. He fought – and when he finally succeeded in turning his head, it was only on his pillow. And the driving rain beat against the window exposed by a newly-drawn curtain - the window that looked down to the courtyard – and Orryn was pouring warm water for Arthur to wash with, as soon as he rose.

It rained all day.

And when they sat for Morgana's birthday feast, lightning could be seen, periodically, flashing outside the colored glass of the windows, high in the outer wall of the banqueting hall.

He slouched in his chair as Morgana, on his father's opposite side, opened gift after gift, sent from royalty and nobility across the five kingdoms. He felt the light brush of Guinevere's hand briefly on the back of his shoulder as she moved forward to fill her mistress' goblet. He appreciated those gestures of sympathy and comfort – and thought perhaps it made Gwen herself feel better for having expressed them – but in some ways, it made it harder. He felt the same incongruity in other ways – on one hand it felt easier to put all thought of his previous manservant from his mind, all reminder and all regret; on the other, it made him furious when someone else seemed to do the same, trivializing his worth or forgetting him entirely.

When the last attendant moved forward with the little engraved box that held his gift, he straightened because he knew Morgana's – and therefore Uther's – attention would be directed to him once more. And he hid from them the confusion of reaction – so he termed it, because still he resisted _feelings_ or _emotions_ – that he hadn't simply stomped and shouted for a day, stewed and pouted another day, and then gone about business as usual, inserting Orryn's name for Merlin's.

Thinking of Orryn – Arthur put his hand over the top of his goblet for the third time, to prevent his new servant re-filling and re-filling. He might even have glared over his shoulder at the man who simply didn't understand Arthur didn't want any more, but for the knowledge of the pang he'd feel, seeing the short man with fuzzy brown hair standing jug in hand by the wall next to Guinevere. In Merlin's place. Where Merlin should be.

And when Morgana clicked open the wooden box to hold up the knife he'd gotten for her birthday present – elegant in its simplicity, razor-sharp and innocuous – he accepted her surprised gratitude and compliments with a tight wordless nod.

Because Merlin had teased him, the morning before the patrol – don't girls like pretty things, jewelry, maybe – and Arthur had scoffed, _You don't know Morgana as well as you think you do_. And Merlin had fired back a stupid repetition of the insult for answer, You _don't know Morgana as well as you think you do_ …

Maybe he'd been right. Guinevere's eyes were red, tonight, and she'd hastily wiped a stray tear twice that he'd seen. Morgana's beauty was flawless, her proud spirit basking in the attention of the night, with a note of disdain just a bit… off.

Perhaps he did her an injustice. Perhaps she threw herself into the role of spoiled guest-of-honor, the king's pampered ward, to forget what had been done to Merlin. But the Morgana he knew – a year and a half ago – would have sulked and glowered and spoiled the whole evening just to punish Uther and let her rebellious disapproval show clearly to everyone.

As the gifts were all received, and the entertainment began – musicians and jugglers, this year – Arthur excused himself.

Outside the hall, the gallery – covered above, one wall a series of open arches – was cool and damp. Rain pattered down and the smell of grass and summer and wet stone was thick.

Arthur closed his eyes, feeling splashed and scattered droplets gather one by random one on his skin, on his hair. He might have stood there for a minute, or an hour before his melancholy was interrupted by the click of her heeled slippers, and then her voice.

"Arthur." A tone of arch sarcasm, typical for Morgana – but odd, under present circumstances. She used to be more understanding. She used to be able to be more understanding.

"I apologize for leaving your feast, Morgana," he said, without opening his eyes. "You should go back inside – you'll ruin your dress in the wet out here, and they'll miss you in there."

"You miss him, don't you." Any sympathy was mostly submerged in challenge.

"Did you watch, Morgana?" he said mildly, not answering her question.

"What?"

"You must've guessed that I'd been given something, that day," he continued, opening his eyes to face her, mostly dark shadow since there wasn't much light in this gallery, tonight. Pale face, dark lips and eyes. "I don't remember seeing him in the courtyard at all, or hearing him."

"Lucky you," she said sardonically.

He remembered that she used to excuse herself from the spectacle. Plead any infirmity in Gaius' books that Uther would accept. "So," he explained, "I can't quite completely convince myself that he's gone. I mean, I know he's dead. But I catch myself waiting for him, like he's just gone picking flowers for Gaius, or home to visit his mother, or drinking in the damn tavern. I catch myself thinking what I'll say to him, chores I want done –"

"You have a new servant," she said. "Orryn seems very nice, very capable."

"He is." And dull as dishwater. "Partly it's the way he died – I didn't see it, didn't see his body…" He could say these things now, past the lump in his throat; maybe he was letting his mouth run away with him and he should shut up, bottle it up – but maybe it would _help_. Somehow. "Partly it's because… I think his execution was unfair. And I should've tried harder to rescue him."

She snorted, a reaction that surprised him; he couldn't figure out a reason for it. "So what are you going to do about it?" she demanded.

"What do you mean?"

"You just let Uther kill your friend – you can still call him that, a sorcerer your friend? – and go on being your father's perfect son?"

"What would you have me do, Morgana?" he said wearily, ignoring the way she spat the word sorcerer – perhaps the trying year she'd spent away from home, kidnapped by the blonde witch had set her as firmly against magic as Uther was. And he still couldn't make the word _sorcerer_ fit with _Merlin_. "What would be a fitting tribute to him, now that escape won't do him any good? Should I stage a coup at your birthday feast? Throw a gauntlet to challenge the king?"

"Why not," she said.

He made an impatient noise. "Do I really have to explain this to you? It won't bring him back. And as angry as I may be with my father for the way he manipulated me -" as angry as he was with himself for not realizing that his father probably saw right through him from the moment he dismounted from patrol – "there is always the balance of loyalty to consider."

"Loyalty," she scoffed.

He moved beside him, pointed through the open doorway to the hall behind her, and she turned to visually follow his signal. "For instance. Sir Brenner. If I defied my father's order – whatever it may be – openly, would Brenner side with me. Would he draw sword to fight my father, or would he draw sword to fight me. Would he kill me, following the king's orders to capture or subdue me in my defiance? Or would he allow me to kill him, because he can't kill the king's son?"

Morgana was silent. The subtler nuances of the court and royal household were something she often ignored in favor of charging straight at her goal, but Arthur himself might not have articulated the question just so, if not for Sir Leon's comments, the night after the trial.

"I said unfair, Morgana, not unjust. If Merlin had been a stranger, I'm not sure I would have spoken up. Gotten involved at all." That bothered him, it was something he'd have to think on, further; favoritism ought not enter a matter of justice. "By his own law, Uther did nothing _wrong_."

"Nothing wrong." She bristled, in the dark beside him. "You think as he does, then, that all magic-users should die?"

"It doesn't matter what I think." Yet. "I'm not the king; I don't make the laws." … _Yet_. "How can I ask any man, any knight who's sworn loyalty to Camelot and her king, to stand against that man and that law, because of what I want or what I think, based on the idea that I will someday be in that position of power, able to remember or reward? How can I take the throne and wear the crown and uphold the law and expect those who might disagree with me yet to obey without threat of force – if I don't do it, now?"

She backed a silent step away. "You will be just like him," she said. Her voice was cold, and hard.

And when she spun to stalk away again, Arthur loosed a sigh from the depths of his soul, stepping to the side of the gallery where the rainfall reached him, soaking the meaningless finery Orryn had laid out, respectful and tongue-tied.

By the gods, he hoped not.

He had the idea that strict adherence to the law was _easiest_. And mercy – or _revision_ , he shivered involuntarily – exquisitely and dangerously complicated.

If he presided over the trial of a witnessed and admitted sorcerer – or any lawbreaker – took someone's word for it that the guilty man had committed the act with the best of intentions, showed mercy and administered a lesser sentence… only to have the criminal turn, sometime in the future, hurt someone or kill someone… would he be partly to blame?

Or should he punish someone – as Merlin had been punished – with the ability or even the inclination to commit acts of evil, before they had done so? His father's policy said yes. Prevent the crime with the blanket and uncompromising ban. He suspected he did not believe such – maybe pragmatic and expedient – to be just.

Hells. Who knew that _this_ – someday king, but not yet – could be such a mire of hard questions with no right answer?

He pushed away from the open arch and headed for his room, deciding not to rejoin the company, not even to request official permission to retire, as wet and bedraggled as he must have been. Unfortunately, he realized, stalking back to his room in the dark, this was yet another issue that, a week ago, he could have discussed with Merlin – argued, insulted, questioned – and found his way at last to the core of clear belief.

Arthur dreamed of Merlin.

Dreamed he woke beside a cozy campfire in the forest in the very early morning, drowsy and safe. Dreamed he opened his eyes to the sight of his lanky black-haired servant huddled knees-to-chest and staring fixedly into the flame of the little fire. An expression of serious concentration on his lean face, and the light of the flames reflected golden in his eyes.

In the dream, he felt no fear – Merlin doing magic – only contentment. But he felt he must make the younger man look at him; in the dream, he couldn't move his hands to find an object to throw. But Merlin didn't notice the weight of his gaze at all, and he struggled to make his lips form the name, to make his lungs expel the air to sound it –

And woke in the darkness of his own bed, his own chamber, to the sound of incongruously disappointing success.

" _Merlin_."

No, he was gone. Arthur would have to find a way to struggle on – to _make him proud_ – on his own.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

It began with a footprint.

And resulted in Gwaine making his way back to his and Merlin's camp alone, after dark, and lost in thought.

It had stopped raining that morning, though the ground was still wet – allowing for the footprint that caught his eye and his fancy and led him out of his way and onto the path of discovery. But though it had stopped raining in the morning, the sky remained cast over by clouds and darkness came the sooner for it.

The fire was banked when Gwaine stepped softly into the little circle of forest that had been the focus of their living area four-going-on-five days now. Quite a tidy little hollow of glowing coals – Merlin must have used his magic.

Gwaine grinned down at the long still form of his sleeping friend, and reached for his own blanket. Only for the comfort of extra padding, and not because it was advantageous to stop the moisture in the ground leaching up into his clothes – it was perfectly dry within their circle.

Something it was surprisingly easy to get used to – and yet startling at the same time, every time. Merlin's magic. Odd to see him walking slowly and carefully – if he should trip he could not use his hands to catch himself. Those hands elevated and curled into his chest as he stepped – and the pot which had no doubt filled itself with water at the stream floating along behind him. While back at camp, the firewood continued stacking itself and the items of spare clothing they owned kept washing themselves, though he took no notice of it.

And, sitting quite still, the younger man had formed and laced and positioned the branches and leaves above and around them into a shelter a thatcher would envy. Without saying a single word.

 _Just how powerful are you_ , Gwaine had asked in joking bemusement.

Merlin answered crossly – because he was in pain almost constantly, Gwaine understood that, he couldn't maintain the cheer all the time, and bad weather tended to exacerbate injuries to joints or bones – _how the hell should I know? How skilled a swordsman are you?_

And they'd fallen into a bickering, teasing conversation comparing and contrasting strengths, training, potential and innovation of their respective crafts, as the storm pattered and flashed and rumbled around them and they and their fire stayed perfectly dry.

Gwaine spread out his blanket and laid down on his back without disturbing Merlin, head pillowed on laced fingers, boots crossed at his ankles.

As friendly and open and straightforward as Merlin seemed, he was also very deep, Gwaine had discovered. And there were dark currents running through Camelot, of that he had no doubt. Momentarily Gwaine marveled that he, of all people, should be content to be led – in this kingdom and among these people – by a man a handful of years younger than himself. Farm boy-servant-sorcerer, acquainted with one city larger than a village – while he himself was knights' son-swordsman-outlaw _very_ widely traveled. Though their experiences with risk and danger were probably not so dissimilar.

Solitary, his adult life had been. And almost frighteningly natural, to include Merlin.

The younger man had not been voluntarily conversational, since his abrupt and magical appearance on the hillside. Gwaine had been aware that his sensitive friend was adjusting not only to physical limitations – and the one that was permanent – but the loss of the entire structure of his life for the past three years or so, and not by choice. He hadn't pressed Merlin's reticence, hadn't suggested any action whatsoever; even the chores Merlin performed around their camp were by his own choice and completed with magic.

But. What Gwaine had seen tonight, should probably be discussed with the one man he trusted to know the truth of personalities and plots within Camelot. When Merlin was ready for it.

It seemed he'd only just closed his eyes, when senses long used to pulling him immediately from sleep at any slight change in his vicinity did just that. He lay tense, and there was a muffled sound from Merlin, again.

Gwaine rolled over to squint at the shape of his friend in the middle-watches darkness.

Of course Merlin had nightmares. He himself had a few, every now and then, probably everyone did, even without the horror of recent torture, almost execution, and the resulting damage, physical and mental. The question was to wake him or not. To let him wake on his own and calm himself, thinking the episode private – or interrupt whatever terrible images he was seeing, at the cost of possible embarrassment and apology. No matter that Gwaine said it was all right, no I wasn't sleeping anyway, just wanted to make sure you were all right.

He knew when he woke from such a thing, often he felt relief that no one else had witnessed his unconscious terror or weakness. And occasionally, it helped if there was someone with whom he could recount the dream, recognize its irrationality, even laugh it off.

Making his decision, Gwaine pushed himself up to a crouch by the fire, taking a thick stick from the nearby pile to prod the coals awake, add that stick and then another. Light was also often helpful, to dispel a nightmare.

Another muffled whimper escaped Merlin. Gwaine paused and watched him, wondering if he should –

Merlin launched upright, hands still protectively huddled into his chest – mouth open in a great helpless gasp of air, eyes wild in the firelight, flaring gold –

And the new flickering flames of their campfire was extinguished instantly and entirely, like a pinched candle.

In the darkness, Gwaine listened to him panting, for an incredulous moment before venturing, "Merlin?"

His answer came distractedly, "Yes – what? – _hells_."

Stupid question, but anyway. "You okay?"

Pause. Silence. Then Merlin heaved an audible sigh of deliberately-released tension, and the fire flared to life again, the magic in Merlin's eyes fading a half-moment after Gwaine could see his face again. His haunted expression.

"It was just a dream," he said.

"Care to share?" Gwaine suggested. When Merlin didn't answer, not even to say no, just stared intensely into the white-hot heart of their flames, he went on, deliberately and annoyingly provocative. "Okay, I'll tell you mine, then. There were these two girls, and I was naked, and–"

"Gwaine!" Merlin was looking at him now, fighting a small grin.

"What?" Gwaine said, grinning back.

Merlin sighed again, and allowed the smile. "I dreamed… the execution." Gwaine made a sound of neutral understanding. "Only… it was Arthur. On the pyre. They were going to kill him, he was going to die, I _knew_ it. It was _going_ to happen, it _was_ happening. And I – you know how it is in dreams – I couldn't move. I was frozen, and my magic too."

Gwaine was proud of both of them, the way those words _my magic_ slid right off the younger man's tongue in conversation, not a bit of hesitancy anymore on Merlin's part, not a pang of ingrained alarm on his.

"I couldn't even turn my head to see him," Merlin finished, softly. And scrubbed the back of one forearm over his eyes, leaving it there, propped on knees drawn up, to cover his face. Even after he huffed a laugh. "It seemed so _real_."

"Sorry." Gwaine moved back to his blanket, sat cross-legged.

"S'all right." Something else seemed to occur to Merlin. "Gwaine."

"Yeah, mate."

"You were… late back." The younger man sounded faintly ashamed, though Gwaine couldn't figure why, and didn't uncover his face. "I thought… maybe you decided…"

"I was following a trail," Gwaine said. Because actions would speak louder than words to the young sorcerer, he thought, and a constant verbal repetition of commitment to companionship wouldn't reassure Merlin as much as the fact of Gwaine's steady presence would. That was something he'd never done before either, prove loyalty rather than proclaiming it – it was a new thing, but a good thing.

"You were hunting?" Merlin's tone was ironic.

"Not without a bow, and arrows to fire." Which wouldn't be a bad idea, if they were going to live off the land for any amount of time. "No, I was following a trail," Gwaine corrected. Because maybe now was as good a time as any to bring up what he'd seen; and maybe his interest in Merlin's home and friends would help prove his intentions. "Human. Female." He grinned as Merlin let his arm drop, but pointed a finger at the younger man's expression. "Not like that. Footprints, out toward the Darkling Woods. Obviously female, and alone, so I tracked her. And you'll never – or maybe you could guess. Who I saw."

Merlin nestled one temple carefully into the palm of his lesser-injured but still-bandaged right palm. "Someone we both know?" he said. "Tall, dark, and beautiful?"

" _She_ was," Gwaine confirmed, seeing the woman again in his mind's eye. From a safe distance, because it wouldn't do to be discovered by her companion's guards. "The other one, tall beautiful and fair. And absolutely up to no good."

"Morgana," Merlin said, and Gwaine nodded; he recalled the memorable king's ward quite clearly from his few days in Camelot, though he hadn't interacted with the beauty at all, then. "And Morgause, then."

"Who's she?"

"Trouble," Merlin said, immediately and succinctly. "Morgana's sister, and a powerful sorceress. They attacked Camelot earlier this year, in alliance with Cenred."

"Ah," Gwaine said, remembering a rumor about the neighboring ruler and his new witch-consort. "One from within, one from without."

Merlin nodded. "Cenred's army – and magic."

Gwaine guessed what he hadn't said – and probably would have to be pressured to admit – that he'd had a hand in defeating the magical prong of the attack. "And they don't know about her in Camelot," he said, not really a question – if they did know, she would not be free to meet her confederate in the woods on her own.

"Were you close enough to hear what they said?"

"No, the blonde had guard dogs prowling her perimeter."

Merlin's grin spread suddenly, and Gwaine counted it a victory. "Tall men, black cloaks, hard fists?" he said.

Gwaine grinned back. "You met them?"

Merlin didn't answer; his smile turned secretive. "It was – Morgana's birthday, today. Yesterday? or… two days ago? Anyway, it could be only that. Happy birthday sister, did you get the present I sent to you anonymously… It's probably a good bet Morgana told her about me."

"Good thing you're dead," Gwaine remarked, and Merlin huffed without smiling. "Or… they could be plotting something more?"

"Gaius is coming again in two days," Merlin answered. "And – if it sounds good to you – maybe we should move a little closer to the citadel. Maybe start shadowing some of the patrols. Maybe…"

"It's too dangerous," Gwaine said, anticipating the last suggestion. "Not unless you can change our appearances like those two thieves at the melee. Anyway, are you sure you're up to more activity? Gaius told you to rest."

"Well." Merlin straightened a bit, not with defiance but with resolve. "There's nothing wrong with my magic. Or my feet."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin waited in the forest alone. Sitting on his haunches at the base of a tree on a little rise, so he could see a good two dozen paces all around him.

It was nice, for a moment. Quiet but for the sounds of birds and other wild creatures who'd become used to his presence in the last quarter-hour. He had no jobs to do, no chores to be reminded of, didn't have to hurry anywhere because he wasn't late; he was waiting. He reached for his waterskin to take a quick mouthful of water, and squinted up at the sun to estimate the time; how long he might have until the patrol came in sight.

Almost three weeks it had been; he wondered if he'd see Arthur today. Because close enough to _see_ was close enough to _be seen_ , too, and of course they couldn't risk that.

It had been an interesting three weeks, at least. Gaius had been able to bring them some things, and Gwaine was surprisingly good setting rabbit-traps and fowl-snares. They'd thieved a rare few things from the villages around Camelot – garden vegetables, a loaf of cooling bread, a garment or two from a clothesline, but Merlin insisted on returning the stolen favors – leaving a full woodbox or a pair of rabbits – or just their skins – even a well-hidden charm of health or prosperity.

Arthur didn't go on every patrol; they'd tacitly decided not to try to protect every patrol – only the ones including the prince. He'd been out twice since… since Merlin left Camelot, but because of a number of factors – distance, terrain, Merlin's own state of recovery – Gwaine had shadowed both those trips alone. And had returned out-of-sorts. He claimed it was the exertion of keeping up with a mounted patrol, on foot and undetected; Merlin privately believed it was because there hadn't been any trouble, either time. And he knew very well the burden it could place on a person's temper, an unrealized expectation of danger.

Patrols were random, to catch lawbreakers by surprise and prevent an overnight camp becoming an encampment and drawing the disaffected in numbers. But – randomly – patrols kept track of any suspicious activity along the borders of Camelot, especially the contested ones, and kept an occasional presence in outlying towns. Ride in – ask after complaints – address any issues – ride out.

But. There was an occasional group of outlaws or thieves startled. There were risks inherent in the patrol from the terrain, the weather, the wildlife. And, Merlin had no illusions that Morgause or Cenred would turn their greedy gaze away from Camelot voluntarily. Though, hopefully, Morgana wouldn't make any unsanctioned move on her own – he believed a threat within Camelot would come with a certain amount of warning time, giving him a chance to react.

As a trusted member of the king's council, the court physician was privy to the patrol schedules and routes plotted weekly, which was enough time for him to bring notice to Gwaine and Merlin when he met them, every three or four days.

Gaius also talked with Gwen often enough to keep pretty good track of Morgana. Hearing what the old man didn't say, Merlin figured Morgana had no interest in indulging Gwen's mourning over his execution, and she turned to the old physician to share their grief, to find a friend who understood, and to help Gaius adjust to the loss of his primary assistant. She couldn't talk to Morgana, she couldn't be seen talking to Arthur, so she talked to Gaius.

Merlin hoped she would forgive him someday, too. This necessary deception – added to the necessary deception of hiding his magic.

Ah. His ears perked at a distant noise; he turned, and after a moment it was repeated. Another moment, and he could identify the sounds of the approaching patrol – the first mounted man riding a stone's throw ahead of his comrades, the better to take note of any activity the rest of the patrol prompted with their passage. Depending on who led it, there might or might not be a rider to either flank, or the rear.

This morning's patrol was essentially a great misshapen loop. Gwaine would follow the whole route, but because Merlin was still slower – his hand ached when his heart-rate kicked up – he would travel only the arc of the patrol that was furthest from Camelot.

For the moment, he kept his place, quiet and unseen; they'd pass about thirty paces from him. He watched them ride until he was sure of their number and position – half a dozen, and carefully spaced – he turned his gaze and searched until he found the unknown seventh.

Gwaine's eyes were on the patrol as he crept forward, but as he paused behind the trunk of a gnarled oak tree, he turned his head to search just off the patrol's route – and Merlin rose, catching his attention. The other man grinned and nodded – checked the patrol – then joined him nearly soundlessly.

"Arthur's not with them," he said.

Merlin's heart sank. "Why not?"

"Don't know. You want to follow them anyway?"

He considered. Their camp was contained in the two packs strapped to their shoulders; he'd expected and anticipated this jaunt not only for the chance of seeing his prince again, gauging his wellbeing for himself, but for the first real exercise he'd gained since… since. And if he was going to spend years trailing Arthur whenever he set foot out of the lower town, he might as well start getting used to how it was done.

"Let's go," he said.

Gwaine nodded and stepped past him into the lead, adopting a gait that was a mix of fast-walk, slow-trot, dart-and-wait, and lag-a-bit.

Merlin hooked each thumb through the shoulder-straps of his pack; it kept his hands elevated as he walked – nothing hurt more than swinging them at his sides except bumping them. The two missing fingernails were nearly half-grown in now, a nuisance more than anything else, and the only remaining bandages covered the last finger on his left hand, and immobilized the two broken fingers around a willow-bark splint - luckily they were right next to one another, the middle two on his right hand. _Luckily_ , he scoffed to himself, and sighed.

Sometimes he had to pinch the empty air past the shortened fingertip – was it still called a fingertip? – in a parody of rubbing the missing joint, to calm the pain. However little sense that made, it did seem to help.

As they traveled, he kept track of where they were along the route, so when Gwaine turned aside to use a mossy fallen tree to cross a stream cutting deep between steep banks, Merlin followed without protest. The right-angle turn would bring them across the inside of the distant arc of the patrol without losing them from range of hearing. Then down a gentle valley and up the next rise before they'd be in sight again of the distant flickers of scarlet through the trees and brush.

"How are you holding up?" Gwaine said.

Three of his fingers ached. But he was used to that by now, it was a pain and a bore, and it probably would take another three weeks to quit. "I'm fine to keep going."

Then Gwaine froze, and Merlin caught the same alert. The sounds were faint but unmistakable – shout and clang of metal. Gwaine spat a single foul curse and darted forward, dropping his pack and yanking his sword from its sheath. Merlin followed, slower and more clumsy; to be free of his pack he had to slide it carefully down his arms, remove his hands slowly – so it banged on his back as he hurried.

Two armed men turned to Gwaine's rush; he barely paused, slashing through the midsection of one, spinning to parry and strike against the other's weapon. Merlin circled a bit to give him some space – saw another enemy from behind, intent upon what looked to him like an intentional ambush – and used his magic to give the man a shove hard enough to send him flying forward out of sight.

Up the little valley, onto the ridge – he caught Gwaine's eye and nodded to his signaled suggestion to split and circle the scuffle.

The six knights were dismounted and formed in a loose knot, facing outward so no enemy could come at their fellows' backs. The knight in command bellowed orders as each man fought – and in some cases, two opponents – it was Leon.

Merlin was out of breath and his hands were throbbing and this was not a ragtag band of thieves surprised by an unexpected patrol. So he focused grimly determined magic, not taking the time for verbal spells.

That man slipped on the grass, the wild reactive swing of his sword hamstringing his neighbor. That one lost his sword at the apex of his defensive strike – and another tripped over the lost weapon, falling into the path of an arrow. Merlin had not even seen the bowman; ducking around another trunk, he saw the man perched above him, ten feet off the ground in a tree maybe five paces from him.

Remembering something else, he grinned and directed a burst of a bit more complicated magic. The branch that supported the archer snapped and he dropped with a hair-raising yell – leaving bow and quiver suspended in the tree. Merlin nodded in satisfaction – but his hand really hurt and Arthur wasn't even here.

One of the attackers shouted something, making sweeping circular motion with his hand, and the rest of the men disengaged, pulling back to disappear into the forest beyond – leaving all their fallen, dead and injured alike. The patrol appeared to hold a quick consultation; Merlin kept a wary eye on them to see that no one noticed his own retreat, sent another quick glance upward to retrieve the bow and quiver of arrows, then returned to where Gwaine had dropped his pack, the scavenged weapons bobbing through the air behind him.

Gwaine arrived only moment later, jogging to him as he shoved his sword back into his belt at his hip.

"The patrol is leaving also," he reported, and gave Merlin a swift but keen once-over. "They might come back with more, to collect wounded prisoners, or maybe they just want to get home with their skins intact. But they're still outnumbered and probably don't want to risk a second engagement if those other fellows regroup." He bent to wipe his knife clean on the grass before reaching to tuck it back into his belt also.

Merlin made a noncommittal noise and took the chance to hunker down for a few moments. Sometimes the pain in his hands – even though a dull ache – made him feel sick to his stomach and lightheaded, and it helped not to be standing upright all the time. "I have something for you."

He nodded toward the longbow and quiver of arrows lying next to him on the ground. Gwaine took a step to see what he meant, and made a sound of pleased discovery, bending to retrieve the weapon, tucking the quiver into the crook of his elbow as he tested the bowstring. "Thanks, mate."

They could hear a couple of men call to one another, and a faster gait of hoofbeats; it sounded to him like they weren't continuing along the route, but cutting straight back to Camelot. Merlin squinted over his shoulder, saw a single flicker of red cloak before he and Gwaine were alone again.

"Think they'll be fine on their own?" Gwaine went on cheerfully, snagging his pack and shrugging into it, positioning it to carry comfortably alongside the quiver. "I doubt I can keep up with them at that pace, and you…" Merlin felt his friend's eyes on him and deliberately straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, though he kept his chest resting on his knees. "You deserve a rest."

"Two attacks on one patrol is pushing the limits of credibility," Merlin agreed.

"And Arthur wasn't with them."

"These weren't a handful of bandits," he remarked, "surprised by a random patrol."

"Ambush," Gwaine said succinctly. "You thought of that, too? Mercenaries, I'd say. Think they backed off when they realized Arthur wasn't with the knights." It wasn't really a question. "We're close to Cenred's border, here."

Merlin sighed. Kidnapping attempt, perhaps instigated by Morgause and Cenred, based on patrol information that Morgana had supplied. "I wonder why he stayed in Camelot today," he said, mostly to himself, trying to ignore the shivery sick feeling he suspected had nothing to do with the cessation of action and concentration of magic, anymore.

Gwaine gave Merlin a _don't-borrow-trouble_ kind of grimace. "Change of plans at the last minute, maybe. We'll talk to Gaius day after tomorrow, and find out," he said. "You want to give me a hand searching the –" He gestured back toward the skirmish-ground.

"Hells, Gwaine," Merlin said, and his friend grinned, having used the phrase on purpose to stir him up. But a return joke didn't come readily. Merlin elected not to watch his friend riffle through the bodies in search of useful items or supplies. He found the idea distasteful, though he knew Gwaine's reasoning was more pragmatic. "No, I'll leave you to it. We're close to somewhere else, here, a place I haven't been to in a while and I'd like to again, and…"

"Good place to set up camp for the night?" Gwaine said. Merlin twisted in a shrug; not _there_ , but maybe close by, there would be a good location. "Give me a minute to ask these boys to contribute to our secret protection campaign, and I'll go with you."

Merlin huffed. "Ask nicely."

Gwaine shot him a grin; he probably didn't like the idea of searching corpses any more than Merlin did, but he did a good job making light of unpleasant necessities. "Always do."

 **A/N: Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and I didn't thank in a pm!**

 **PS, this is a bit late due to a series of unfortunate events. I had to rework the last section (it ends up being longer that way – no one minds that, do they?), then the puppy I'm sitting chewed through the power cord on my laptop so the battery ran out, and to top it all off (pun intended) I got a headache – which for me stifles all creativity. Anyway, this is what you get, sorry, hopefully the next one is faster and much better. New and improved.**


	9. A Princess and a Pixie

**Chapter 9: A Princess and a Pixie**

Arthur strode into the long vaulted receiving chamber, through the sunlight drifting through the windows along one wall and onto the polished-wood floor. He wasn't late. Uther himself was only reaching the head of the room, the trio of steps leading up to the dais; therefore Arthur was not late.

Orryn fluttered behind him, trying to pin Arthur's ceremonial knight's cape correctly at his shoulder; Arthur brushed him aside. He didn't care if the surprise visit meant his new manservant had time only to throw the cloak over the clothing he'd meant to ride patrol in, instead of chainmail. He also didn't care if their company realized that.

"Arthur," Uther greeted him distractedly, looking over his shoulder toward the doors at the far end of the room; Orryn finally took the hint and dropped subserviently to the background with other gathered on-lookers. "It is an exciting day."

Exciting. Not the word he would have chosen, but Arthur didn't see the point in arguing with his father. "The arrival of Lord Godwyn is always a cause for celebration," he stated neutrally.

"And Princess Elena," Uther added. Suggestively. And that was enough to arouse Arthur's suspicion. "I hear she's something of a beauty."

"Really," he said only.

"Oh, yes." His father still hadn't met his eyes. "Beautiful, charming, witty… strategic."

"Strategic?" Arthur said, in disbelief. What in all hells was going on?

"I have always thought so, we have always thought so. That is, Lord Godwyn and myself." Almost, he would characterize the king as _flustered_. "That is, he finds you strategic, not Princess Elena."

Strategic. And Uther flustered. "Father, are you trying to say –"

"Lord Godwyn is a serious ally. The strength of such a match cannot be underestimated."

Arthur deliberately turned his back toward the empty doorway waiting for their guests, and stepped into his father's line of sight. "You are trying to coordinate my marriage to Princess Elena."

Uther met his eyes, finally. "I knew you'd understand," he said, with definite relief.

"It's not going to happen." Arthur had rarely been more sure of anything in his life; he was through being manipulated, pressured and coerced into something he didn't agree with.

The king gave a soft impatient snort. "Arthur. It has not escaped my notice that you have been uncharacteristically morose lately."

"Morose," Arthur enunciated deliberately.

"I have decided that it is high time you stopped indulging this irritability and turned your attention to what's best for Camelot, establishing the line of succession."

"So you're planning not only marriage, but family as well." Arthur lifted his eyebrows; he didn't know whether to be amused or furious.

"It should serve as a distraction for you, as well," Uther said. "You need cheering up."

All right. Furious it was. Uther expected him to forget the events of three short – and endless – weeks ago, with a _wife_? The thought made him ill, and he spoke without concern for the imminent arrival of guests.

"I hardly see how my attitude is any of your concern," he stated. The ache in the region of his heart – because a father should care for what affected his son's moods – was distant. "Have you any complaint to make over the discharge of my duties?"

"No, Arthur, of course that's not it," Uther said placatingly.

"Has the quality of training or the morale of the men suffered?" Arthur pressed. He had focused very deliberately on doing his absolute best in all that was required of him, busying himself so that he could avoid thinking or feeling as much as possible.

"No, but that's not the point – Godwyn!"

Arthur turned as his father strode to meet the visiting ruler, a benevolent gray-haired man with a square jaw and a heavy brow – and an even heavier crown.

"Uther!" the other greeted him as the two unreservedly clasped each other's upper arms. "Oh, it's been too long."

"Princess Elena," Uther turned to the frowzy blonde with a vacant expression in an unflattering lemon-yellow dress. "You are most welcome." He reached for her hand – and the girl fell flat on her face before Arthur could so much as twitch in reaction.

She looked up with a sheepish grin, clambering to her feet like Mer– like a common village urchin would, smoothing down her gown with the energy of a busy laundress.

And he was expected to – Arthur roused himself from the rebellious turmoil of his thoughts, at the appearance of Sir Leon at the open doors at the far end of the hall. They had returned early? The knight caught his eye, nodded significantly, then slipped away again.

"I apologize, my lords," Arthur spoke up into the banal generalities the other three were exchanging; even Morgana was holding herself aloof, though that was characteristic of her these days. "I must see to the report of the morning patrol which has just returned." Uther turned toward him with irritation in his expression, opening his mouth for a refusal, Arthur anticipated. "And, to make sure the servants have their preparations for our guests' accommodations well in hand. If you will excuse me –"

"Of course, Arthur," Godwyn said sympathetically; Elena just looked uncomfortable. "Duty calls – no, Uther, young men are busy men, you remember those days as well as I… plenty of time later for…"

Arthur spun on his heel and stalked from the chamber, hearing Orryn follow him; at the corner he turned toward the guest quarters alone. He took the stairs two at a time, and glanced out the side window down to the courtyard to see Orryn just emerging; he would direct the delivery of the baggage being unloaded in the courtyard. The man was so damned efficient all the time, it made him feel a bit… lonely. He shook his head; odd word to come to mind.

He turned down the corridor to the guest chambers; his feet followed the leading of his heart and increased pace at the sight of the maidservant. "Guinevere."

She turned in a swirl of pink-peach skirts, and her face lit up in a gentle smile as she waited for him to catch up with her.

"You've given them the best guest quarters," Arthur added. Not because it was necessary to ask; Guinevere was as efficient and thoughtful in her way as Orryn was, but wise and brave enough to speak up, too. And it was a decent conversation opener, much better than the awkward _how are you doing_ they'd used for the past fortnight.

"Everything's arranged," she assured him. "Princess Elena can't fail to be impressed." He nodded, hoping he kept the echo of his reaction in the receiving chamber from showing to her on his face – while simultaneously wishing he could speak to _someone_ – "What is it, Arthur?" she went on, a fine wrinkle appearing between dark eyebrows. "You seem troubled."

Arthur sighed, and rubbed his forehead. "My father had some surprising news for me. He expects me to marry Princess Elena."

"Marry?" she said, stunned. Because there hadn't been a hint, or a whisper – that he'd been aware of, at least – in palace rumor, that this occasion was being planned.

A sudden desire to touch her – even just grasp her hand for a moment – made him sway toward her in the corridor. "I'm not going to," he said, and hoped it sounded as much like stated determination as he wanted it to, and not like a childish denial of the inevitable. He shook his head, trying to articulate his thoughts. "He thinks to distract me from whatever mood I've been in of late."

She set her jaw and shifted her weight, and he interpreted.

"It's been that noticeable?"

"Probably to people who care about you enough to observe it," she said, and a moment later her cheeks pinked as she realized what she'd said. "I mean, of course we all care about you – you're the crown prince after all, and who wouldn't –"

He took her hand, and she bit her lip.

"If I did, if I married her, what would you do?" he said softly.

"I will watch you grow into the king Camelot deserves," she said, "as it should be."

Her eyes glinted with unshed tears, and the thought struck him, fair or unfair – Uther had taken Merlin, a friend who was brave enough to be honest, to say what Arthur needed to hear, not just wanted to hear. A friend to them _both_ ; Morgana wasn't that sort of friend anymore, not since they'd recovered her after her abduction. He couldn't lose Guinevere, too, and she didn't deserve the sort of distance he'd have to impose on their friendship, for the sake of his marriage to someone else. He wasn't going to let his father dictate his relationships, anymore.

He rubbed her fingers. "You know I can't be rude to our guests," he said. He regretted that they had traveled the distance, when it would for nothing; he regretted Elena's feelings, if they were hurt – but mostly he was angry with his father for initiating the whole thing. "But… guests, is all they will ever be."

"And allies," she added in a near-whisper.

Reminding him, maybe intentionally or maybe not, that it was a delicate situation, and to be handled so. To give no offense, in getting his own way – as long as it was the right thing, too.

He smiled, and even though the quick heavy tread of several servants approaching with the baggage of the guests could be heard behind him, he raised her hand to give her knuckles a quick kiss – which in turn raised the color in her cheeks again – before taking his leave.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The night was still and serene. Clear; Merlin could see a few stars through the canopy of leaves overhead. Another wakeful night, though at least this time it wasn't due to discomfort; the pain in his hands had long since dulled.

Tonight, he could feel the latent magic of Avalon, even at a hundred-pace distance.

Gwaine was snoring lightly; reminded of their earlier conversation on the shore of the lake, Merlin couldn't help a wry smile and twitch that mimicked shaking his head while it rested on his pack for a pillow.

"A lake!" Gwaine had exclaimed, the moment the silver surface shimmer was visible through the trees. He'd dropped his pack on the grassy verge and shucked his jacket, reaching for his belt.

"What are you doing?" Merlin said, confused by his friend's reaction to a privileged glimpse of a sacred place.

"It's a lake. I'm going for a swim."

"The hell you are!" Merlin said, through laughter he couldn't quite deny.

"A bath at least?" Gwaine pleaded with an impish grin.

"Absolutely not."

"What makes this place so special, then," Gwaine said. He refastened his belt but made no move to retrieve jacket or pack, sitting down to recline back on his elbows and stretch out his legs. "Aside from the whole gateway to the beyond thing."

Merlin gazed across the water toward the mountain, bare of snow in the second month of summer, listening to the little waves by his feet lapping at pebbles and reeds. It was peaceful, now, and reminded him more of the second time he'd come here, than the first. The pain of letting go and admitting failure was a faint echo, bittersweet; the love he'd felt for her and from her, however, remained in the bedrock of his soul.

"I fell in love once," he admitted.

Gwaine, to his credit, did not seem surprised. "Good for you," he remarked. "Who was she?"

Candlelight sparkling in dark eyes – a beautiful sweet sad smile…their _kiss…_ Merlin answered after a moment. "A druid."

Gwaine made a noise of cheerful enlightenment; he'd probably guessed what Merlin hadn't said – Merlin's magic would never have been an issue between him and a girl of the druid people. Not like it would be if he'd fancied any other common girl. "She loved you back, I expect? What happened?"

Her tears, her loneliness and fear, her pain and humiliation when she knew he'd discovered the truth… He'd been planning to leave Camelot and Arthur – he'd been _packed_ to leave. And now… he had left. He took a deep breath and let it out. "She was cursed," he told his friend.

"Literally cursed," Gwaine said for clarification, and Merlin nodded. "I suppose I don't want to hear details. Any more than you want to tell them, yeah?"

"No," Merlin said softly. "It… well, it resulted in her death. I brought her here at the end…" The breeze whispered through his hair, against his skin, soothing him. Soothing the longing he still felt faintly, for that simple life of ordinary love that was never meant for someone like him. The destiny that felt meager consolation, at the moment.

Gwaine sat up, draping his elbows over his knees and gazing across the water. "I'm very sorry it didn't work out for you," he said contemplatively. "I… never met a girl worth remembering."

"I was lucky to have known her," Merlin said quietly, half to himself. _I wish you were here_ – though the thought was melancholy fancy, not serious desire.

"Do you want to camp here?" Gwaine asked.

"No, not just here… but close."

Merlin closed his eyes, now at almost midnight, and breathed deeply. The place was to his soul like the best of Gaius' balms and healing potions.

Perspective. He'd mourned death here, he'd caused death here, and like so much in his life since his arrival in Camelot – it all led back to Arthur, in the end. To magic, and to shared destiny, to the purpose of his gift.

To protect Arthur, who would someday play a part in the freedom of magic. How or when, he didn't know. There would be a way, he believed, for him to protect Arthur. Even isolated from Camelot, even with only Gwaine – and occasionally Gaius – for help. It could be done, because it must be done, and if he had to wait for years for another chance to show Arthur the truth about the nature of magic, he'd do it, because he firmly believed, if – no, _when_ – Arthur realized the truth, he would do the right thing. End the persecution of innocents, allow those with magic to learn and to use it for the kingdom.

Years, maybe. But he'd do it, whatever it took, he'd –

Merlin bolted upright, his body gasping for breath through a shock like ice-cold water flooding his veins.

Avalon, he knew instinctively. Someone was activating the portal. Calling the sidhe – he'd felt it before, racing through the forest trying to reach the pair who had abducted his prince before Arthur's soul could be sacrificed for Sophia's immortality.

Shivers raced along his spine, rippling and crossing – excitement, apprehension – power, and the question of _why_ … He was on his feet and slipping through the trees, ever closer, before rationality could even consider both sides of the decision.

The surface of the lake glowed misty blue. He entered the pocket of paused time naturally, unobtrusively, another creature of magic creeping forward to observe unobserved. Each step was a heartbeat. Each moment a free and capricious sprite flitting, splashing, enjoying a private and incomprehensible revelry.

Now, he was reminded more of the first time he'd been here. And there was a figure on the bank.

Merlin stepped cautiously to the side, staying hidden – the price of his life no doubt required instantly if he was discovered, and by a king he feared more than Uther for cruelty and caprice – and crouched to see her.

Or… it?

Clearly not human, with skin a sickly mauve, dotted with large black moles; the ears and nose were three times the size of a person's, and pointed. As were the teeth. And both twists of coarse black hair, side by side on the creature's head above the ears like a pair of horns.

It bowed, fawning, and Merlin's attention was drawn to the single tiny blue being hovering stationary in the air. The staff in his hand – no bigger than a twig but exquisitely deadly – was all the identification Merlin needed. The sidhe king.

"I sincerely hope you bring me good news." The voice was rough and growly, but high-pitched, and carried across the water just fine. Probably it helped that all other sound was frozen in time, also.

"The fathers are committed to the match," the dumpy purple-skinned being said. Merlin ventured a guess at female, and kept listening. Not his business, but then again, everything that happened in Camelot was his business, wasn't it?

"We have waited many years for this moment," the king said. A reminder, or a warning, maybe?

"It's only a matter of time, your esteemed majesty. You have been most patient, your esteemed majesty."

Crouched hidden behind his tree, Merlin made a face to himself. The creature was a bootlicker of the first order – only sidhe didn't wear boots, their long web-toed feet were bare, the better to dip into the lake – he shook himself. Probably if he worked for the sidhe king he'd grovel, too.

"And the girl?"

The creature simpered a bit, an ugly sight. "She has no idea that a fairy lives inside her, just waiting to emerge." Merlin winced in sympathy for the unlucky unknown – then froze in horror at the king's response.

"But that cannot happen until her marriage to Arthur is complete."

Wait, what? His blood felt slow and cold as lake water. Who were they talking about? Arthur would only marry Gwen, but Merlin would have known if there were a fairy inside Gwen – many years, they said, so no – unless the prince was enchanted. Again. He tightened his grip on the trunk of the tree, feeling the rough bark growing in vertical grooves, grounding himself in reality. Why _had_ Arthur stayed in Camelot, instead of riding out with the patrol.

"And it will be soon, I promise you," the creature was reassuring its master. "Then you will have what you most desire. One of your own at the heart of Camelot. A sidhe for queen."

Oh, for the love of all that was holy.

Merlin kept his place as the creature released the magic; the glow faded to the bare glimmer of midnight, the dancing sidhe once again hidden from the mortal world. He listened as it trundled through the underbrush toward Camelot, then pushed upright and followed, slower and quieter.

Two plots at once? The witches wanted Arthur kidnapped – no doubt to make Uther vulnerable, though they surely could mean Arthur no good, either. He doubted they'd simply return him to the throne to begin his retaliation as king, for their crimes. And now the sidhe wanted him married, then dead.

And Merlin himself probably needed a good night's sleep.

 _Well_ , he thought ruefully, _we all want what we can't have_.

Too bad he couldn't set the sidhe and the witches at each other's throat, and lay low with Arthur until the war blew over.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

As early as Orryn came into Arthur's chambers, he often found Arthur awake. If for no other reason than Arthur often found it hard to sleep.

That morning, Arthur had his choice of sleep-stealing issues to focus on.

Elena he'd worry about later. In about… three hours, when he'd invited her for a ride and a picnic he was not looking forward to. But he owed her – and Lord Godwyn – for the time they'd spent traveling, and the close alliance they had with Camelot, to give it a go. To look like he was giving it a go.

Because he was sure his father had not accepted the conversation at dinner last night – private, as their guests were given their first night to recover from their travels before a more public banquet the next night - as final.

"Lord Godwyn, as you know," Uther had lectured – it had been an uncomfortable topic even without Morgana listening avidly in – "is not only a very good friend of mine, but a long-standing ally of Camelot."

"I have nothing against Lord Godwyn. I've nothing against Elena, except marriage," Arthur had stated calmly. Focusing on consuming his meal, steady and deliberate though he couldn't now remember tasting a single bite. "And if the alliance is long-standing, it should not need our marriage to confirm it."

"When we talk about your future, Arthur, we're not just talking about your personal happiness, but the safety and security of the whole of Camelot."

 _Safety and security_ , Arthur thought again, drumming his fingers on the pages laid in front of him on his desk. _Of the whole of Camelot_.

"You may one day be a husband," his father had gone on – and Arthur's involuntary glance at Guinevere, serving table for the three of them, had probably been noted by Morgana - "but more importantly, you will one day be king."

"Yes," Arthur had said deliberately, his heart pounding, though he tried to smooth all signs of agitation. "Yes, I will. And, if you consider me old enough for marriage, father, then I think it is high time you stopped treating me like a child… and expecting me to behave like one."

Silence in the room. Guinevere's eyes were wide as she clutched the wine jug, Morgana's and Uther's both similarly narrowed.

"I beg your pardon," the king said stiffly.

"You invited Godwyn and Elena without saying a word to me about the visit or its purpose," he said, laying down fork and knife to grip the arms of his chair unseen below the edge of the table. "You inform me that my duty is to marry, in the middle of a crowded receiving chamber moments before we welcome guests – quite possibly, you thought to force cooperation by having the conversation in public?"

He did not say, _like you had me drugged to appear agreeable to my servant's execution for magic_. With an effort, he did not say it. Did not look for a spark of guilt showing in his father's gray eyes.

"I am not a child to be shamed into obedience without argument, to do what I'm told simply because I'm told," he went on. "I am aware of the safety and security of Camelot, it is my highest concern. But, this is my life. And I will not marry someone I have no feelings for – with all due respect to Godwyn and Elena, I will be as honest with them about the matter as with you."

Uther's mouth was dropped open, a bit, and he was speechless. Morgana looked shocked – grudging admiration mixed with inexplicable irritation, he thought, but her reaction was not his concern at the moment.

"I intend to treat every guest you invite to Camelot with all courtesy and respect," he said, pushing his chair back from the table in preparation to depart. "But there will be no wedding, and if you will not explain the misunderstanding, then I most certainly can. Good night, Father."

He'd been lucky, he thought cynically, watching Orryn smooth wrinkles from the red velvet coverlet on the bed, to have been allowed his own room, unlocked. But perhaps Uther was finally realizing that his son had grown up, and was going to demand treatment accordingly – or perhaps he simply didn't want the embarrassment of informing their guests that Arthur was unavailable because he had been arrested until he complied with the royal will. He wished it didn't have to be like that. He wished he could earn his father's respect instead of demanding it by return threat. He hoped that such conduct wouldn't characterize him, in future, it was too much of his father's attitude for his comfort.

Arthur didn't bother asking if Orryn had everything organized. He already knew the answer would be, _of course_. The servant seemed to take it as a personal failing if he hadn't _already_ done whatever chores Arthur ordered. He turned his attention somewhat unwillingly back to the reason for his sleeplessness, the pages on his desktop.

On top, Sir Leon's report of the patrol he'd missed yesterday morning, greeting visiting royalty. Intended for Arthur's eyes, primarily, and because a chance for them to discuss it privately was unlikely, it held a distinct note of apology, for something Leon had said nearly three weeks ago.

 _What if he's been doing this sort of magic for years…_

Six knights had returned without so much as a scratch or bruise, from an altercation where they were outnumbered three to one, and taken by surprise. They hadn't been able to ascertain the identity or motivation of their attackers, but Arthur read between Leon's lines quite well.

Mercenaries. And at least one – possibly a leader – had shouted, "He's not here!" prior to a hasty retreat.

Not really a surprise that he as prince might have been a target for abduction. More worrying was the idea that the group might have obtained confidential information, about the route and Arthur's intended accompaniment, though spies were not entirely unexpected in a royal court.

But what bothered Arthur were the details. Gathered perhaps in a quick glance before the knights assured their safety with a quick return to Camelot, but… Two enemies shot with arrows, at least one body observed with a knife in his back. When the knights defended themselves, in this skirmish at least, solely with swords. Leon had personally observed two of the enemy slipping, tripping, and another losing his grip on a weapon in an accident that became fatal for the man beside him.

Hence the apologetic note. Leon regretted hinting that Merlin was guilty of more than the witnessed incident – good fortune seemed to smile on the knights even though… even after… it seemed their inexplicable good luck was just luck.

"Will there be anything else, my lord?" Orryn said, polite and subservient, hands folded in front of him and head ducked respectfully.

"No, not right now," Arthur said. "I will see you in the courtyard, midmorning."

"Yes, my lord."

As the door of his bedchamber closed carefully behind the servant, Arthur shifted Leon's report to see the page underneath. Even though he'd nearly memorized it, in his need to make sense of it.

 _How long have you been using magic?... I don't know._

 _When did you start using magic?... I don't know._

 _Who taught you?... Nobody._

 _Where did you learn it?... I didn't._

All the way down to, _He killed both the griffon and the questing beast with a single spell._

If it was a pack of lies. Why? Why would Merlin say such outrageous things if it only made Aerldan hurt him more? Why would he tell lies after promising Arthur he'd tell the truth? Unless he had been out of his mind – but Arthur hadn't seen or felt or believed that, in the few minutes he'd had with Merlin.

If it was the truth. No, impossible.

Which left, maybe, some truth and some torture-driven fantasy.

Maybe it didn't matter, since Merlin was dead. Maybe he should put the whole sheet in the fire and try harder to forget.

But. A very faint and irrational voice said, What if. As insanely impossible as it was, a sorcerer able to kill creatures the size of a house and a sorceress that had been powerful before Merlin was even born… and yet, executed by a king who allowed no magic?

That block. If Merlin had more magic than a spell to allow him to snatch an enemy's sword, that block would have made him helpless. Except, when Gaius removed that thumbscrew. What happened, exactly? Powerful magic? But not from Aerldan - nor the rune itself, that made no sense – which left only…

Though, the state Merlin had been in… his _hands_ … no, probably escape had not been possible, as badly hurt as he'd been.

Arthur had avoided Gaius. He'd admit it. Before Merlin had come to Camelot, Arthur had gone to the physician's chambers occasionally in a fit of boredom or the interests of learning a bit more battlefield aid for his men, if injury or illness dictated – which wasn't often; as crown prince he rated having the physician summoned to him, if necessary. But in the course of Gaius' duties, he often stopped to talk, walk with him a ways, and after Merlin's arrival, he'd gone more often, usually in search of a tardy or absent manservant.

The last three weeks, he hadn't needed a physician. Hadn't wanted to see grief for Merlin when he looked at Gaius. Had hoped, rather, that these persistent _I-wonder-if_ 's might dissipate and vanish and he'd gradually realize he thought of his former servant less and less and with diminishing regret, but.

He sighed and snatched up the page, crumpling it in his fist. But instead of turning to the fire, he turned to the door.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin leaned against the table below the window in his bedroom as the sky lightened toward dawn.

The room was dusty and closed-smelling; he smiled a bit sadly to himself. It was obviously no longer in use. As he waited, he crossed his boots at the ankle, his arms over his chest – though his hands lightly gripped his upper arms instead of tucking underneath them, for the sake of three still-healing fingers.

Gaius hunched over the book open on his knees as he sat on Merlin's bed, mumbling to himself as he scrutinized the recipe, grumbling something about the witches of Meredor. Three hours they'd spent - after Merlin had woken his mentor carefully and kindly, ignoring his demands and threats over the idea of Merlin sneaking back into the citadel to tell the more urgent news – going through Gaius' books for a solution.

It was a faint relief, to theorize that the visiting princess, Arthur's intended, was not actually a sidhe, but a changeling, and the more potent threat was the pixie masquerading as her maidservant. Merlin shifted his weight, leaning a bit on the staff retrieved from under the floorboards beneath his bed, now tucked into the crook of his elbow. If defense was required when they forced the fairy out of Elena – the only logical course of action that seemed open to them, as once again they couldn't go openly to king or prince with their information – at least he wouldn't be taking the girl's life, this time. Hopefully, without Arthur around to defend enchanted love…

"Has Arthur been alone with her?" he said aloud. "Have you seen them together, and does it look like he's infatuated with her?"

"Not to my knowledge," Gaius said shortly, without looking up. "No, and I would doubt it – a person whose heart is already given, as you say Arthur's should be, is more resistant to the majority of love spells and enchantments."

Good. At least Gwen would be left out of it, this time.

"How is he… generally?" Merlin ventured. Angry? Happy? Anywhere in-between?

"I'm not sure I'm the best person to ask, after Arthur's state of mind," Gaius told him without looking up. "I haven't really spoken to him about anything of any consequence in private for… over a fortnight." Merlin watched his finger trace down the list copied on the page, wondering what message he might infer from Arthur's avoidance of the physician. "I am fairly sure I have most of these ingredients," Gaius went on. "But to make this potion I will need the stamen of a dropwort flower, which I do not have to hand, nor can I obtain it easily."

"Dropwort," Merlin repeated, and stepped forward to study the illustration of the flower on the corner of the page.

"They're rarer than a four-leaf clover, grown in boggy and marshy terrain."

Merlin nodded slowly, memorizing the sketch, mapping a few likely areas around Camelot in his mind. "I'll find it today," he promised. "Bring it to you tonight, when Gwaine and I sneak into the vaults through the tunnel in the dungeon."

"Grunhilda will not come until the princess no longer requires her for the night," Gaius reminded him. "That is, if she even accepts such an absurd invitation."

Merlin tried very hard not to smile. "You'll have to make sure it's an offer she can't refuse." The old man lifted a fierce eyebrow, and he hurried on, "What about today? If Elena isn't a threat, we only have to keep Grunhilda away from Arthur, right?"

"I believe I heard that Arthur had invited her to spend the morning riding the countryside," Gaius returned, himself agreeable to a change of subject.

"We'll have to think of a way to get her on her own tomorrow, also," Merlin said. "Once you've got the potion ready." Another night spent awake and working for the old man; he winced in sympathy and apology, but the old man seemed not to notice.

"Hm. And someplace you have safe access to, as well," Gaius added.

"Perhaps another ride?" Merlin said.

The old man shook his head. "It won't be easy; this is not merely a social visit. Uther will no doubt pressure Arthur toward a proposal which both Godwyn and Elena expect as well."

From the physician's chamber beyond came a voice that had Merlin's spine straightening involuntarily, his heart kicking up its pace in his chest.

"Gaius?" It was Arthur. Merlin's mentor gave him an agitated look which he read instantly _– he can't find you here._

"I'll see you tonight, in the vaults," Merlin hissed, and even as Gaius nodded, he spoke the spell his mentor had tucked into his palm as he sat in the questioner's chair three weeks ago, once again to quit Camelot for the far forest in an instant. " _Bedyrne me – Astyre me thanonweard!"_

As the air stirred his clothes with magic and the room vanished in a swirl of brown-to-green, he thought, _Gwaine is never going to believe this_!

 _Here we go again._

 **A/N: PS, sorry I know everyone's kind of waiting and hoping for Arthur to find out Merlin's still alive. That's going to be a slow-ish process and maybe a little longer time in coming… Not because I'm mean and cruel (okay, maybe a little) but because I always planned it that way, and it works best for what I'm trying to do with the story… I think I'm still on track for 18-20 chapters; sorry this one seems like it started with action and fireworks instead of ending with it – but there will be more of that, too…**

 **Some dialogue from ep.3.6 "The Changeling."**


	10. Treacherous Ground

**Chapter 10: Treacherous Ground**

Arthur pushed open the door of the physician's chamber, giving a quick glance around – and then an irritated sigh. The man was never here, anymore.

A small voice questioned, _Can you blame him?_

For a moment he stood in the quiet, empty room and inhaled the familiar odors and he could see Merlin everywhere he looked, and hear him; he was afraid of that feeling because he wanted to keep it, and never experience it again, at the same time.

Voices, though. Good distraction. He strode further into the room, peering into corners, up to the higher level where Gaius kept more books – no one. He was alone except for –

"Gaius?" he called at the door of Mer- of the back storage room.

A moment of silence. Then Gaius opened the door, stern and sad, and descended the three stairs to the main chamber heavily. "Sire," he said. "What brings you here so early?"

"What were you doing?" Arthur said. A bit confused, and a bit hesitant to start the conversation.

The old man paused on the last step, hand still on the rail. "I was talking to Merlin," he said.

Arthur stared for a minute, before feeling his face warm and dropping his eyes. Everyone dealt with grief in their own way; he was a little afraid of what would come out of his mouth if he started speaking to Merlin's spirit.

"Guinevere says, she can't believe he's gone," Arthur said.

"And you, sire?" Gaius made his way to his desk and sat down behind it, propping elbows on the arms of the chair and tenting his fingers together contemplatively.

Arthur found he couldn't stand still. If affection was a weakness, what was this? He'd seen what grief had done to his father and had grown up never wanting to let anyone close enough to hurt him like that. "I know he's gone," he said aloud. "I know that. I know he isn't coming back, no matter what I do…" The best possible, or the worst, though he'd felt the odd inclination to both, at different times. To have Merlin cosmically returned somehow, as a reward for good behavior, or to pacify a royal tantrum. As illogical as the idea was, it lingered. "I think about, what I could have done differently, if there was anything I could have said, since that damn stupid brawl and the knights saw him doing magic."

"Arthur, you mustn't –" Gaius began to protest.

"I know it doesn't change anything _now_ ," he said, turning at the door to pace back to the stairs of the room. "But I think… there's so much I don't understand, Gaius. I feel like, if I can understand better _what happened_ , then…"

"It won't happen again?" Gaius said.

Arthur stopped and nodded, focusing on the floor. So it wouldn't happen to anyone else, any other that he was responsible for – and that was every citizen of Camelot, wasn't it. If he was going to uphold the laws of his kingdom, when one day he was king, he needed to know that he could do so without shame. "I can't help but think that it matters. When I am king, how can I know that I'm choosing the right course of action if there are things I'm ignorant of, or just plain wrong about?"

"For instance?" Gaius invited.

Hells, where to start. He wasn't ready to examine his impulse to make Merlin an exception to the law based on personal familiarity. Perhaps it would never be an issue again. But the ideas of guilt and innocence and magic and motivation were all so complicated. His feet started him moving again, pacing, of their own accord, as he thought.

"I understand what he did that day," Arthur told the walking toes of his boots. "And I understand why." Even if he wished Merlin had never done it, risked his life for Arthur. "But… what about the rest."

"The rest, sire?" Gaius was going to force Arthur to be specific.

"What he said at the trial. What he told Aerldan. Even that – whatever that was, when you released him." All of the things that contributed to Arthur's inability to see Merlin free. He reached to the inside of his vest and took out the folded sheet he'd worried for weeks, now. Unfolding it, he set it on the desk in front of Gaius, leaning on spread fingers on its surface over the old man. "I want the truth."

Gaius leaned forward to take a moment to read, then re-read it, passing wrinkled fingertips gently, almost reverently, over Merlin's words in Arthur's handwriting.

 _How long have you been using magic?... I don't know. When did you start using magic?... I don't know._

"Arthur, as far as I'm aware, it's all true."

"What?" he said, shocked into standing straight. "What do you mean, as far as you're aware? And how can it be true that he killed Morgana, or that a single spell killed two creatures months apart in time?"

Gaius sighed. "If you don't believe Merlin, you won't believe me, because much of this, I cannot corroborate with firsthand knowledge."

Arthur settled his stance and crossed his arms over his chest. "What can you corroborate with firsthand knowledge, then?" he demanded.

"I recall waking, lying on the floor just there, and Merlin had that lead-lined cask in his arms," Gaius said bluntly. "Guinevere was present also, you could ask her, but you heard the goblin inside the container yourself, when we presented it to Uther."

To have Merlin acquitted of the charge of sorcery, Arthur snorted to himself. A charge brought by Gaius under possession of said goblin. Okay, Merlin was sometimes surprisingly resourceful; Arthur didn't mind admitting the possibility that the servant would figure out how to oust the possessor and trap it.

"I was present on the isle with Nimueh the sorceress," Gaius said. "That is a long and complicated story, but the end of it was, I had gone to confront her over deception and betrayal at the time of your injury by the questing beast. She attacked me – when I woke she was gone and Merlin was there."

Arthur felt his way to the bench beside the eating table, and eased himself down. How many times, could he have said the same thing. When I woke, Merlin was there, and whatever danger threatened, _gone_. No. Impossible. Though, perhaps she had underestimated him and he had gotten close enough to use a knife or something…

"I watched him practice the spell that would help kill the griffon," Gaius went on.

And the bottom dropped out of Arthur's world. The griffon had threatened Camelot… _three years ago_. That long, really? Then Leon would have been right about Gaius allowing Merlin to practice magic, at least – _encouraging_?

"I said at the time, no mortal weapon would kill it – you noticed yourself that your spears and swords made no impression. I saw him finally succeed – the knife in his hand glowed blue, before he rushed out of here to catch up with you and your men that night you left Camelot to fight it."

Glowed blue. Arthur lowered his head to his hands. Wishing he could _remember_ , or forget. No mortal weapon – Lancelot had taken the credit for that kill, but Arthur never understood how _his_ spear alone had been effective. Glowed blue – he twisted away from that thought as well. Merlin had been dying – lost in darkness as thick as that in the cave Arthur had thought for a moment would be his grave. Impossible.

As it had been impossible for him to use magic with that rune-block carved into his chest?

"Perhaps he used the same spell to enchant a weapon to kill the questing beast," Gaius said, effectively distracting Arthur. "Under the circumstances, I would not be surprised if Aerldan misunderstood what he said. The same spell, but enacted at two separate times."

That meant, Merlin had done magic almost since the first year they'd known each other. Varied spells. Damn, it meant he hadn't merely dabbled in the evil material of magic, he'd… how far had it corrupted him, and Arthur hadn't seen?

No. He shook his head at his own thoughts and pushed up from the bench to pace again, somewhat feverishly. Merlin had asked Arthur not to hate, told him he was better than that. He'd used his own tortured fingers to make sure Arthur was all right – he'd refused to run for his own safety, he'd saved Arthur's life. How could any of that possibly be termed corrupted? Not even self-serving!

So. Either Gaius was lying or mistaken – he'd lean toward mistaken, but Gaius knew Merlin as well as Arthur, and if he believed Merlin capable of fighting sorceresses and performing advanced magic – hells, it felt like all his thoughts and memories had been torn to shreds and flung out the window into a high wind. He knew Merlin had helped free Mordred; if he admitted the possibility that his manservant had captured the goblin, killed a sorceress and the griffin, where did that leave him on the rest? Innocent of involvement when Tom the blacksmith or Alvarr the renegade druid escaped the cells, that was easy enough to believe. Even healing Tom was acceptable as within Merlin's desire to accomplish. But why kill Sophia? Why claim to have killed Morgana? And the _dragon_?

He glanced at the marked candle on Gaius' worktable, he knew he had less than an hour before he was expected to meet the visiting princess, ride out for a picnic with polite interest and good breeding – and the sort of awkwardness that reminded him of Merlin, but resulted not in a cheerfully returned insult, but a feminine embarrassment he didn't know how to relieve. Couldn't very well call Elena an idiot.

Arthur sighed and turned, leaning back against the worktable, carefully so his weight would not disturb Gaius' equipment. "What about those first questions, then," he said.

"Truth as well," Gaius said. "He told me much the same thing, when I found out about his magic. He'd never studied, he didn't know any spells, he'd been moving things with his mind since his cradle."

"But for that, you have only Merlin's word for it, or his mother's," Arthur pointed out.

"I see no reason for either to have lied to me about these things," Gaius said, sitting back in his seat. "The first time I saw Merlin was about two seconds after he'd saved my life – with magic, and without a single spell, or the reassurance that I would not summon the guards immediately. For a stranger. I'd never seen anything like it before, or since."

That, Arthur could believe. In theory. The part where Merlin would act first and think later and not consider legal or illegal when someone's life was at stake and he thought he could do something about it.

"But it doesn't make sense, Gaius," he said. "I know Merlin was – not like anyone else. But you're asking me to believe he used magic as an infant? Not by choice but by instinct and… inborn ability? And somehow managed to keep using magic – with or without spells or incantations or training – for twenty years, without a single hint of evil in his heart? Because I knew him Gaius, lazy obnoxious disrespectful clumsy – whatever Merlin was, he wasn't evil. How much magic, for how long, before corruption begins to set in?"

"Arthur." Gaius pushed himself up from behind his desk. "Do you recall from your history lessons, what initiated the Great Purge."

He huffed, but knew he'd have to indulge the old physician's tangent if he expected any more answers. "The king was betrayed by a close confidante, a sorceress of some power, and so was discovered the corruptive nature of sorcery. Therefore any use of any form of magic and any encouragement, aid or support of those who chose to continue endangering themselves and those around them – you know the laws of the ban as well as I do, Gaius."

"The incident of betrayal," Gaius said, watching him closely. "What do you know of that?"

"I –" He stopped, disconcerted. Details, had he ever been told details? Not even the sorceress' name, or crime?

"Her name was Nimueh," Gaius said gently. "A high priestess of the old religion – yes, the same one Merlin killed to defend me. Your father needed an heir, and his beloved wife Ygraine was barren. Uther went to Nimueh for a solution, but the magic was advanced and complex – your life was given, to your parents and to the world, at your conception. And at your birth, a life was required to maintain balance, and –"

"My mother," Arthur said. His lips felt stiff, and his legs. He looked down at his feet and hoped the table behind him would not collapse; he wasn't certain he could catch himself.

"Nimueh was young and perhaps careless," Gaius said. "Uther was perhaps too rash in his desperation, too impatient to heed warnings, as well."

Numbly Arthur blanked out the old man's voice. He'd heard the story before, from an image summoned by the witch Morgause as part of a plot to turn him against his father. Yet another proof, he'd thought at the time, that magic was intrinsically evil.

He'd heard so many lies that day, almost two years ago. When he'd disobeyed his father and escaped his room, left Camelot, placed his head upon a damn chopping block to prove his honor and sincerity and for what? To be used as a pawn between the witch and his father – vengeance and self-defense, and both _selfish_ motivations – his mother's image and memory distorted, advantage taken of his loss and his love and…

And in the end, it had been Merlin's voice he listened to. Lying also, so it would seem, but… for Arthur's sake. Denying himself – if Gaius was to be believed, Merlin's magic known and accepted by the old man since Merlin's first day in Camelot – so that Arthur would not commit the crime, the sin, of killing his own father. Even if it might have been an act permissible by the knight's code, a challenge issued, fought, and won.

Right and wrong, legal and illegal – _which_?

Arthur raised both hands and shoved his fingers through his hair, gripping it and his head momentarily before smoothing it back down the nape of his neck.

"Nimueh protested herself innocent of designs upon the queen's life, ignorant in advance of which life might have been taken," Gaius went on. "Uther believed her, and instead blamed magic itself. A force which corrupts, insidiously and inexorably, he declared, and none of us were safe until it was eradicated completely. There were a few of us he allowed to pass without penalty, having taken an oath of complete renunciation. Any use whatsoever was met with swift and merciless punishment, anyone caught harboring someone even accused of magic…"

"All the druids," Arthur breathed. And because they began their teaching at the earliest age, "And their children."

"Even so. Nimueh also, was finally declared an enemy, as she continued her sorcery, opposing Uther's new laws. Proof, then, that magic would turn one friend against another."

He understood the old man's actions, and reticence, throughout Merlin's trial, a little better. The accusation of harboring would bring much more severe consequences than Arthur's concern for his own accusations of enchantment, by said sorcerer.

So. It wasn't just a question of disagreement over when to administer judgment – after a crime actually committed with sorcery, or at the time when magical potential was realized, in order to prevent the crime in future.

"You mean to say." Arthur retreated from the old man, back to the bench seat by the wall. "You mean to say, my father was wrong? Magic doesn't corrupt, as we've been taught for twenty-two – twenty-three years?"

Gaius turned to lower himself to the three-legged stool, and leaned over his robe-covered knees. "Magic doesn't corrupt, Arthur. It is a neutral force."

"It distorts nature," Arthur argued.

"It supplements nature," Gaius corrected. " _Power_ corrupts, Arthur. I am an old man, and I have seen it time and again. The power of wealth. The power of position and rank. The power of skill. All may be abused, the repetition of which selfish misuse is what changes a person's character."

He had to admit, he'd seen that before, too. A rich man had more influence than a poor one. There were lords who used their wealth to generously increase the prosperity of those under their care and protection, councilmen who used their intellect and education to urge a noble course of action, men born and trained to physical skills who freely gave them in service to king and kingdom.

There were also lords who squandered their riches on personal indulgence, councilmen who looked no further than their own interests, skilled fighters who turned to lawless mercenary bands or thievery for their own gains.

That was not to say that gold corrupted and was therefore evil and should be banned. Nor education, nor skill, nor even being born into a noble family – which of course was not even a choice.

"Magic is no different from these things, no better and no worse," Gaius said.

"But I have seen it used for such horrendous acts," he said, a faint protest. "The monsters – the sorcerers plotting my father's death, my death."

"Anyone may succumb to the temptation to avenge a loss," Gaius said.

Arthur sat back abruptly. _He_ had, hadn't he. And his father had, in initiating the purge.

"You have seen it used for good, as well, though it has had to remain hidden – that magic punishable by death the same as sorcery used to attack or harm or hurt. You have known someone who resisted that temptation to avenge a loss. More than that, he cared for those who would have called him enemy – you, your father, Morgana, the knights. He accomplished great and good things for those who mocked and mistreated him – and he would have kept on doing so, given the chance."

He couldn't think about that. Of course he knew who Gaius meant; in spite of the _I cannot corroborate with firsthand knowledge_ , Arthur had seen it himself.

Merlin had saved his life in front of the entire court, when they'd been nothing to each other but street-brawl enemies. And no good deed goes unpunished – Uther had thanked him for it by handing him over to Arthur, and Arthur had thanked him by making his life miserable. Sometimes intentionally, sometimes not; it had been humiliating to Arthur, back then, that the rescue had been necessary at all. Oh, the rumors – a peasant boy saved the crown prince… because his reflexes were faster? Because he'd been more alert to the danger? Arthur had done his best for a while to humiliate Merlin in return.

And only weeks later, Merlin had voluntarily drunk from a cup he believed poisoned, to save Arthur doing so.

And if Gaius was right, that Merlin had been capable of magic his first day, then why. Why save Arthur, who after all had seen him executed for it. Why stop Arthur killing his father – if he hadn't, Arthur would have been king now, to preside over his trial, having revealed his magic, and maybe offer mercy...

"It doesn't make sense, though, Gaius," he said, swallowing the guilt. "If he knew he had magic – and no intention of swearing off using it – why did he come here?"

"I am afraid I can give you only half an answer," Gaius told him. "I mentioned Merlin's magic was purely instinctive, when he came; almost he couldn't help using it, and it made his life uncertain, even in Ealdor. He came here to learn to control it. To learn to hide it."

"To learn…" Arthur repeated. "From you?"

Silence in the dusty pungent room. He realized he was asking for Gaius' confession as well, and felt proud, privileged, and scared when the old man answered.

"Yes."

"Why you?" he said. Hells' sake, a man at the heart of Uther's court.

"I knew his father," Gaius said mildly.

Another shock – in a long line of them – barely made an impression. _I thought he said he didn't know who his father was, never met him._ Arthur said, drawing it out into a question, "And his father was –"

"Another magic-user."

Arthur was not going to get into a debate about whether or not magic was hereditary. His father, he was aware of the rumors, had executed children, based on the fear that it was possible. Kinder and safer to do it as soon as possible, even.

"Why did he stay?" he said, softly pleading. "You make it sound like he learned that control a long time ago, and obviously he learned to hide it adequately. Why didn't he leave Camelot again?"

Gaius regarded him for a keen moment. "I think you know the answer to that, sire."

 _I'm happy to be your servant until the day I die._

Uther would never change his mind or his laws. And if, as Arthur suspected, knew, resisted, the laws were themselves horribly unjust, he would have to do something about that, when he was king. Would have to oppose the enforcement, even now while he was prince, as much as he could. Had Merlin given his life to bring Arthur to this realization?

"Having been told most of his life that having magic made him evil, made him a monster, he believed he'd found his true purpose, his justification for drawing breath, in serving you. His destiny, you might say."

 _What's so important in Camelot?_

 _You._

Arthur felt physically ill, and passed his hand over his eyes. _Merlin, Merlin. You should have run._

Well. One half of the answer, and he guessed the other half of the answer would be found at the opposite end of Merlin's journey – the start, and the person who sent him. Who would also be the only one who could answer the question definitively, when did Merlin start using magic.

He sighed, pushing to his feet again and pacing to the closed door where he stopped and studied the rough grain of the wood. Gaius had told him the truth – as the old physician and one-time magic-user perceived it.

His father also, no doubt, believed he'd taught his son the truth. As he perceived it. So who was right, and who had deluded himself?

"Thank you for answering my questions, Gaius," he said aloud.

"My door is always open to you, Prince Arthur." It was the physician's tone, compassionate in diagnosis.

He reached for the latch and left the chamber, heading for the courtyard. It was a complicated question, and perhaps a purely objective answer impossible. Up to him, then, to form his belief based on logic and proof the clearest he saw it, and to the best of his ability. And all his inclination wanted to put the sharp and uncomfortable weight of the topic of magic behind him. Remember his reckless and loyal and lively servant as he was, and not question what he thought he knew.

For now, however, he had to return to the issue of their guests.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine woke to a stray gust of air and an unintelligible human noise. He jerked upright from his blanket, right hand landing on the hilt of his sword always carefully positioned beside him when he went to sleep.

In a moment his eyes found the prone figure of his companion, a few yards away on the bare ground; Merlin was stretched full-length and belly-down, his face propped carefully in hands that still bore bandages. For a brief disoriented sleep-to-waking moment Gwaine thought three weeks back and Merlin straight from the pyre and the question of _what shall we do now_ to be answered.

Then he realized Merlin was laughing.

A mirthless chuckle, though, and when he dropped his hands, his eyes shone with unshed tears through his wry expression. "That was close."

"What happened?" Gwaine demanded. "Where have you been?"

Keeping his elbows down to brace himself without need for his hands, Merlin scooted to a sitting position – and knocked against an object that had been hidden by his body. A long staff, white but not smooth – carved, probably, the markings looked regular to Gwaine – and a luminous blue stone twice the size of an eagle's egg attached somehow at the end.

"And what in hell is that?" Gwaine added, bemused.

Merlin told him.

Once or twice, listening to the outrageous things coming from his friend's mouth, a flash of wondering if it had all been finally too much, occurred to him. He looked into the eager earnest expression in Merlin's lake-blue eyes – then again, _magic_. He wondered if all of Merlin's life had been so fantastic.

And he thought _he_ had stories to tell drinking companions.

"So this creature you saw at the lake," he said, slowly retelling the story to make sure he'd grasped it.

"A pixie, Gaius thinks, based on the description, and it can only be the princess' old maidservant, out of the king's retinue."

Gwaine made a noise of acceptance. "You overheard a pixie plotting with the king of the fairies to get Arthur bedded and beheaded –" Merlin's face twisted in amused protest at the flippant description – "you followed her-it-whatever back to Camelot, where you sneaked past the guards to get back into the citadel where you almost died three weeks ago?"

"It's Uther's fault," Merlin declared. "Those soldiers simply are not on their guard against someone with magic. In any case, if anyone saw me they'd think I was just a ghost."

Gwaine sighed, shaking his head. At least the younger man had gone in the dead of night on the risky mission. "And so Gaius said…"

"The visiting princess is probably a changeling and has no idea a fairy is inside her so we have to help her and Gaius can make a potion but he needs dropwort and I'll find that for him today. But Arthur is going riding with the princess so you need to follow and watch him and make sure he's safe because he's in love with Gwen so he's going to refuse to propose to Elena and I can't see the sidhe being happy about that."

"So you're going to pick flowers," Gwaine said, "and I'm going to watch Arthur woo a girl he doesn't want. Got it. And then?"

"Tonight we're going back into Camelot – I know a way directly into the lower levels of the citadel, don't worry – so Gaius can complete the potion to free the princess. If the old maidservant is the pixie, Gaius figures he knows a way to lure her down to the vaults so we can trap her and get the potion to Elena without interference." Merlin's triumph was palpable; Gwaine hated to poke holes in their plan. But for all their sakes…

"How is Gaius going to get the pixie to the vaults?" he said. And was entirely unprepared for his friend's reaction – impish grin so wide it crinkled his eyes almost shut.

"Pixies evidently have a weakness for – more distinguished gentlemen," Merlin said. "If he invites her to meet him…"

"What are you saying?" Gwaine said narrowly. "You mean, she might be attracted to Gaius? Meet him for a – what, a lovers' tryst?" Merlin chuckled; Gwaine gave a shudder and an amused shrug. "Gah. Okay, what about when the sidhe comes out of the girl? It's just going to fly back home to the lake?"

"That's where this comes in," Merlin explained, touching the shaft of the staff. "In my experience, the sidhe are arrogant and vindictive, but this will be adequate protection for Gaius and me. I don't think the sidhe are aware of events in our world unless and until the portal is open at Avalon – that's why they need the pixies as their servants. So if this particular fairy and pixie never report back to the king…"

"He's not going to know exactly what happened, to foil his plan," Gwaine finished, nodding – then tilted his head to one side to repeat sarcastically, "In your experience?"

Merlin's smile was small and private. "Admittedly limited."

"You know I'm keeping track of these obscure references you keep making to stories you've got stored inside your skull," Gwaine told him, turning to roll his blanket in preparation to depart. Halfway around the fire, Merlin's blanket copied his movements on its own. "I will require explanations, someday. Where shall I meet you, then?"

"Northwest of the citadel, straight out from the tower about forty paces," Merlin answered, struggling to his feet and picking up the staff delicately with the first fingers of his left hand. "Good luck with Arthur."

Gwaine made a rude noise. "Hells, this is going to be awkward."

"He'll never even know you're there," Merlin said reasonably. Mostly. Partly, teasing.

Gwaine shouldered his pack and scattered the ash of their fire with the sole of one boot. "Even worse."

It took him nearly three hours to get to Camelot. Almost midmorning, but he knew he hadn't missed the royal pair, he'd been in sight of the road the last hour or so. And it wasn't necessarily safe for them to cut across country without a significant escort, which Gwaine would be able to trail from their point of departure from the road.

The pennant-crowned tops of the white towers were visible through the trees when Gwaine found Arthur. And lost him again, almost as quickly.

"A race," he grumbled to himself, watching a girl with blonde hair and yellow dress flying in the wind she generated.

She galloped in the lead with a delighted expression on her face – but the consternation on Arthur's, as he chased her down in clear second-place, was almost worth it. Gwaine turned and jogged after them, finding the third horse, ridden by a plain-dressed, fuzzy-haired unknown traveling at a much easier pace for him to keep up with. And he evidently – Arthur's new servant, Gwaine guessed without much interest – knew the destination of the little party. Though he was relieved when they stopped at a bit of sloping grassy bank beside a three-pace-wide stream. To catch his breath, and see that Arthur hadn't fallen and broken his damn-fool neck on the headlong gallop.

"Because Merlin would blame me, if you had," Gwaine muttered under his breath, positioning his accoutrements to climb a nearby tree easily.

From there he could keep watch over the whole area, if they decided to take a walk, without moving – or being seen – and he'd be able to spot trouble coming a quarter-league in any direction. The princess unaware and the sidhe inside her yet impotent, the maidservant a dead give-away; he figured the only danger to the prince would be from an unexpected outside source.

"It's not because I'm afraid of what he'd do to me, as a surprisingly-powerful sorcerer – you understand." Reach for the next branch, pull and lift and next branch. "He'd just look at me with those lost-puppy eyes and I'd want to – go drown myself and you – know you really – don't deserve him."

Gwaine reached a strategic perch and settled in for a long boring day.

Except it wasn't – exactly – boring. He even wished he were closer, a couple of times, to hear what was being said. This Elena looked like a fun girl, for a princess. If she'd been an innkeeper's daughter, he might have tried to get to know her better.

He watched her whack Arthur's arm like a hearty teamster. He watched her sneeze – all over the front of the Arthur's chainmail, judging by the prince's reaction – and grinned to think of the new fuzzy-haired servant having to clean it. He even, a couple of times, heard her snort laughter – probably inappropriate for a princess, but just perfect to set off a taproom crowd when Gwaine reached that one line in his favorite joke, the buck turns to the doe and says, _Thank you my deer_ …

And evidently she was possessed by a fairy.

Gwaine shook his head, pinching a leaf that was partially in his way, off its stem. It was always something here, wasn't it? Welcome to Camelot.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin thought, it was a good bet Gwaine smelled him, before he saw him, in the gathering dark of past-twilight.

Having spent most of the day slogging through the various wet lowlands of Camelot, his sense of smell was somewhat deadened to it. But he couldn't help a grin at Gwaine's noise of revulsion as he pushed away from the tree trunk to alert Merlin to his location.

"I sure hope all this," Gwaine said, gesturing at Merlin's head-to-toe muck, "means you were successful."

Merlin leaned on the staff, carefully held between thumb and first three fingers of his left hand, and held up the dropwort – leaves, white flowers, roots and all. "And Arthur?"

"A single gentleman of leisure, still," Gwaine said. "As far as I know. Now where's this hidden passage?"

Merlin's magic bypassed the lock on the grate without difficulty, and he tucked the staff horizontally in his left arm, supported at elbow and wrist, so they could creep down the passage. Merlin's magic bypassed the guards in the cells and at the stairway to the vaults without difficulty also.

"They're not on their guard against magic, are they?" Gwaine breathed in Merlin's ear, as the last soldier slumped at his post in a pleasant peaceful doze, and they slipped inside the main chamber of the secured area.

"Uther's own fault," Merlin returned. And when Arthur was king, Merlin would personally make sure that secure _meant_ secure, in the citadel.

They waited the better part of an hour; Gaius couldn't expect an assignation from the pixie-maidservant until the princess had dismissed her from service for the night. Merlin brushed more drying mud off himself in a desultory manner; most of the smelly muck had dried – on his clothes and boots, skin and hair - it cracked and flaked as he moved, though he'd done his best washing hands and face in a stream as he'd passed. Then finally they heard footsteps descending the stair, and the court physician appeared.

"Oh, you're here." Gaius puffed a bit to catch his breath, nodding to Gwaine who'd taken up a position to watch for anyone else approaching. "You've got it, the dropwort?"

"Grown in boggy and marshy terrain," Merlin repeated from the book. "In the _middle_ of boggy and marshy terrain." Though he appreciated neither of his friends said the obvious – _you tripped, didn't you_. Because he still had to avoid using his hands to break his fall.

"Good," Gaius said, taking the stem of the plant to inspect it more closely.

And Merlin inspected him more closely; the old man wore a fine dark green robe with heavily embroidered lapels. "What are you dressed so nicely for? To meet your pixie? You look very handsome, Gaius, perfect bait."

Gaius folded his arms and fixed a stern look of reprimand on him, ignoring Gwaine's muffled snicker. "She is not my pixie," he said. "Though I am sure now, that is what she is, based upon her behavior at the banquet. Now Merlin, if this doesn't work, if it seems she's overpowering me–"

Merlin couldn't help poking a little fun. Perhaps it was Gwaine's influence over the past few weeks. "I will just watch and wait," he promised solemnly.

"You will rescue me," Gaius corrected with a touch of concern. "And if it does work –" he included Gwaine in his glare – "let us never speak of it again."

Merlin bit back his grin, and obeyed, changing the subject. "So… a banquet?"

Gaius exhaled. "For visiting royalty, of course, and anticipating a proposal of betrothal. You would have been proud of Arthur, though, speaking up to Uther and Godwyn in decline of the alliance, for Elena's sake as well."

"He wouldn't marry someone he didn't love," Merlin guessed, feeling pride, and a wish that he could have been there to see it. He knew well the cost of denying and suppressing feelings, instincts, desires – and though Arthur would know the same, as the heir and someday the king, he was rather glad it hadn't worked out that way, this time. And for Guinevere as well.

"From what I could see, Godwyn was impressed and Elena rather relieved, and even Uther wasn't completely incensed," Gaius said. "And there is more. This morning, when Arthur nearly discovered you in my chambers, he had come to ask me –"

Gwaine hissed for their attention, flattening himself against the wall inside the doorway. "Someone's coming."

A vaguely feminine voice warbled down the echoing stone corridor. "Hello, my lover!"

Merlin darted behind a waist-high stone crypt, careful to keep his grip on the staff – quiet and hidden. He heard waddling footsteps, and the same voice, enthusiasm absurdly undiminished as the creature entered the vault.

"Oh, what a romantic place!"

He could swear he heard Gwaine scoff. Carefully he moved forward, toward the open grate door, still shielded by the crypt. His friend slipped out the door to the opposite side – glanced down the corridor – beckoned Merlin that the way was clear.

"I've been _dreaming_ of this moment!"

Merlin darted forward to join Gwaine, catching a glimpse of a gown-clad figure nearly as wide as she was tall, and that nearly a head shorter than Gaius. Frizzy gray hair sprang out from under a fitted cap, but she had her back to Merlin, facing Gaius – who wore a look far more squeamish than he'd ever seen on the physician's face.

"Me, too," Gaius agreed faintly.

"Longing for this time," the woman continued audaciously, pressing forward. Behind Merlin, Gwaine breathed an amused curse.

Gaius repeated the word as if it tasted foul. "Longing."

"At last," the creature breathed, yearning closer, "we two will be as one."

Merlin took pity on Gaius, and waved. The physician took hold of the pixie's shoulders, repositioning her – Merlin saw her eyes were squinted shut in her plump face, lips pursed in obvious expectation – and Gaius fairly leaped for the doorway. Merlin and Gwaine slammed the iron-barred door shut, and he spoke the spell to lock it. _"Ne un clyse!"_

The pixie hustled her bulk to the door, grasping the bars and pressing face and body into the iron as if she'd squeeze somehow between them. Completely ignoring the presence of the two younger men to plead with Gaius, "You'll never know what you missed!"

Gaius's hand was on Merlin's sleeve, as if he'd just escaped great danger. He heaved a sigh of relief and answered her, "I'll take your word for it."

And without warning, the dumpy old woman opened her mouth – and shot out a tongue half a pace long, thick round and _purple_. To slaver a caress up and then down Gaius' face before Merlin could snatch him back out of range.

Gwaine's hand had drawn three inches of steel from the sheath at his belt; his expression of surprised disgust made Merlin want to laugh in spite of his own revulsion.

"At least," Merlin said aloud, "Now we _know_ she's the pixie I saw at the lake."

For the first time, the creature looked at him – and growled. From a round old woman's face, it was somewhat less than fearsome, but… just in case. He drew his companions a few steps down the corridor, not quite to the point where they would be within sight of the guard snoozing at the head of the stair.

"Gwaine, give me your sword, a moment," he requested, and his friend complied. He spoke the spell that had worked to fortify weapons against creatures of magic, before. " _Bregdan anweald gefeluc_." He handed it back to Gwaine, warning him, "Don't let her escape."

Gwaine's grin of excitement faded to a grimace of disappointment at his blade as he watched the blue glow fade. "I won't," he said. "How long do you think this will take?"

"Half of an hour to finish brewing the potion to full potency," Gaius said, having used the sleeve of his green robe to wipe his face. "It shouldn't take much longer to administer – with Grunhilda here –" Merlin and Gwaine both glanced involuntarily back toward the locked vault door – "gaining entrance to the princess' bedchamber will not be difficult. Once the sidhe is forced out of her, she will probably remember nothing of the night's events. If we're lucky."

"And if not?" Gwaine said.

"We will hope she can be persuaded it was a nightmare," Gaius concluded.

 **A/N: Thought we needed a bit of lightness here at the end, right?**

 **Something I was trying to do with this fic that I hope is coming across decently and in good order. The balance of power between current king and future king, and the relationship of each to the law as it stands; as I see it, each king has a right to enact or repeal as he sees fit and has the support to do so (whether we'd consider it morally right or wrong). Arthur has a clear duty to obey the king and uphold 'the law' – he also has a duty to do right by his people according to his beliefs insofar as he is able as prince, and prepare himself to rule them fairly someday. It's complicated, folks, bear with Arthur &me as we sort it out… **

**Also, dialogue from ep.3.6 "The Changeling".**


	11. Into Thin Air

**Chapter 11: Into Thin Air**

"Wash," Gaius said peremptorily, shutting the door of his chamber behind them and sliding the rarely-used bolt into place. "Even if the guards don't see you or hear you coming, they're going to smell you three corridors away."

Merlin propped his staff in the corner behind the door and obeyed; he removed his cloak and shirt to clean them, with a single spell removing dirt and stains, before dropping them on the patient's bed as he crossed to the washstand. "In the vaults," he said, pouring water heated with a glance of magic, "You said something about what Arthur wanted, when he came in this morning."

He turned to watch his mentor pluck the white petals of the dropwort flower with a delicate silver pincer, drop them down the narrow neck of a glass vial suspended on a tabletop tripod over an open candle flame. Gingerly Merlin began to unwrap the bandages on his left last finger, in preparation to wash.

"Evidently the prince transcribed part of your trial, and your testimony to Aerldan," Gaius said, lifting the glass mixing-vial with a hardier set of tongs to swirl the petals into the liquid inside without touching the heated glass with his fingers. "Three weeks later, Arthur is wrestling with questions concerning the nature of magic – good, bad, or neutral – and the morality of the ban. The subject of your magic, Merlin, as it relates to those two questions."

Merlin watched the last curl of bandage release his skin, half-lost in disbelief. Three years of hinting and hoping, looking for opportunities and fearing them at the same time – and three weeks after his 'death', Arthur was actively seeking enlightenment on his own.

"That's –" He swallowed against a rush of confusing and conflicting emotion. Triumph, irritation, relief, impatience – "That's good," he finished lamely.

Gaius returned the potion to the flame and moved next to him, taking the limp strip of soiled bandage to set it aside. He turned Merlin by his shoulders to face the room's candlelight and poked at the half-dozen marks on his chest left by the containment rune, unconnected and fading, with a satisfied murmur. Then the physician took Merlin's hand to examine the shortened finger; the skin had healed over the severed joint, though it was still pink, tender to the touch, and prone to throbbing when blood flow increased or quickened.

"This looks quite well, Merlin," he said. "Have you had any particular problems with pinpointed sensitivity? No? Let me see the other hand."

Merlin allowed him to unwrap the dirtied strips of cloth holding the fingers that had been broken to the willow-bark, a narrow curved splint that extended protectively from the base of his palm a bit past his fingertips. "You can move them with only minimal discomfort?"

"They're still sore," Merlin allowed. "But I can use them now." A bit. Carefully. He turned back to the wash-basin, using soap and cloth slowly, so as not to bump or jostle or press with those fingers unnecessarily, and the old man retreated to supervise the process of his potion.

"I am very proud of you, Merlin." Gaius' voice interrupted him washing out his hair; as his eyes were squinted shut and he was bent over the basin so as not to drip all over, he simply halted his movements to listen. "I do believe Arthur is well-started on his way to discarding the notion that magic is intrinsically evil and corrupts all those who use it, and instead admitting the use of magic for good. He is questioning what he believes, and he won't be satisfied with anything less than the truth."

Merlin shivered, and it had nothing to do with bare, wet skin. He'd made mistakes, he'd lied – the prince was a relentless hunter, what would he think when he found out those things Merlin himself regretted? _Don't hate me_ … He reached for the towel to dry himself, for something else to focus on, and noticed that Gaius was watching him, perhaps simply waiting and timing the brewing potion for the possessed princess.

"That is partly your victory, Merlin," his mentor said, his tone half-scolding, as if Merlin had disagreed outright. "Your patience with him, your loyalty – even your daily service – it is beginning to pay off. Arthur wouldn't question the innocence of a stranger executed for sorcery. He wouldn't wonder about the goodness possible in magic if he didn't feel the truth of your care and sacrifice for him. His heart tells him, an innocent man was executed – and he is on a self-imposed mission of sorts, to see that it doesn't happen again, if he can prevent it."

"As prince, he can do little," Merlin reminded the old man, keeping his voice even with an effort. Keeping the hope that flared, wildly and almost painfully in his soul, in check with reality. "And he may not be king for _years_ and years."

"We shall see," Gaius allowed. "Perhaps I have been waiting so long I've gotten ahead of myself. For now, I have fresh bandages for you – those fingers need to be protected another couple of weeks. Get dressed – this potion will be ready before you are."

Merlin ducked into his newly-cleaned shirt, leaving the laces at his neck untied – difficult and time-consuming, doing that either by hand or with magic, and awkward to ask for help. It was a moment more to use his magic again to clean trousers and boots, and he swirled his cloak around his shoulders as Gaius decanted the potion into a dose-bottle.

"Well," the old man said, tying a scrap of oiled leather over the mouth to prevent spillage along the way, "let's hope your luck holds, Merlin."

He gave his mentor an encouraging grin in response, grasping the staff again – to which Gaius raised a forbidding eyebrow, before leaving out the chamber door. Merlin trailed him at about ten paces, give or take. Gaius knew the citadel better than most of its inhabitants, probably, he knew when to use the hidden servants' shortcuts, and when to stalk right up to a guard and distract him with a stern query or implied reprimand. His magic only supplement the physician's stealth twice.

Merlin found himself hoping, as they reached the guest wing of the palace, that this could be done quietly, for Gaius' sake. He knew without a doubt the old man was skilled at prevarication when he had to be, to protect a patient or other loved one, but to face two kings over an unsolicited midnight excursion to a princess' bedchamber – it was lucky Gaius was an old man.

Slipping inside the door, he pushed it shut behind him, and nearly ran into Gaius' back in the dim light. A moment later and he knew why the physician had paused – Elena was whimpering in her bed, and further sounds indicated physical as well as mental unrest.

"A nightmare?" Merlin whispered into Gaius' ear.

"Light a candle, if you please," his mentor returned.

Merlin focused and spoke, " _Bryne_ ," and a tall taper on the bedside table flicked to life, revealing the girl – sleeping anything but peacefully.

As she lay on her back, her hands were fisted in the pillow to either side of her head, curly blonde hair spread in disarray. She twisted, giving a little cry – and her features were momentarily distorted, showing pale white-blue skin and pointed teeth. Merlin - just behind Gaius's shoulder as they advanced hesitantly toward the afflicted princess - jolted, taking a long step sideways to spin the staff defensively horizontal, stabilizing his hand's tentative grip with the shaft between elbow and ribs.

"What is it?" Gaius whispered; Merlin envied him his calm nerve.

"I saw it – I just saw it, the sidhe," he hissed back.

"Quickly is best, then," Gaius decided. "Be prepared, Merlin – she's been the fairy's unwitting host her whole life. It will retreat back inside her as quick as blinking if it can."

The physician hurried to the bedside; Merlin circled toward the foot, staff ready to focus his power in a strike of deadly lightning, suppressing the urge to caution his mentor. Gaius uncapped the dose-bottle, shook back his sleeves, and gently raised the princess with one hand around the back of her head and neck. Elena opened her mouth to moan again, and the physician – with decades of experience treating unconscious or uncooperative patients - poured the potion down her throat.

Merlin watched her swallow convulsively – then jerk out of Gaius' grasp to fall stiffly and heavily among the pillows. He steeled himself – he did not enjoy acting as judge for the magical threats that arose against Camelot, and even less as executioner – but needs must. There was no one else, and Merlin's sensibilities must come second to his king, and Arthur's kingdom, its citizens and allies.

A tiny blue light popped up above the princess' head – he wasn't fast enough to see if it had come from her open mouth or just coalesced from her skin – he aimed his power and released. Gaius jumped as a bolt of blue lightning zipped across the bed, mere inches from where he sat, to explode the sidhe in a scatter of sparks that dissipated instantly into the air. Merlin jumped too, as the concentrated power sent sparks of momentary pain through his still-healing fingers.

"Oh, my!" the princess gasped – and Merlin thought it best to spin and dash for the shadowed alcove by the door before she saw him.

"Be at ease, my dear," Gaius soothed, in his best handle-everything physician's manner. "There is nothing to fear, I am Gaius the court physician here in Camelot. You had a nightmare, do you remember?"

"A nightmare?" the princess said; Merlin couldn't see her from his hidden position, but her voice sounded stronger, more confident – not a trace of the uncomfortable whimper he'd first heard. "You must be mistaken. I feel amazing – I haven't felt this good in years."

"Ah," Gaius said. "Well, I have had several years treating the Lady Morgana for nightmares – if I haven't perfected the recipe by now, it is not for lack of trying. I am sure you will sleep better now, your highness."

"Yes, I suppose. Thank you, Gaius – where is Grunhilda?"

A mild shock of anxiety shot through Merlin, til he heard Gaius' comfortingly placid response. "I'm sure she's about here somewhere. Best to sleep now, and the morning will come soon enough."

They exchanged a wish for the other to have a good night, and Gaius joined Merlin in the doorway to the sound of bedclothes shuffling as the newly-freed girl made herself comfortable.

"You can take this back with you, hide it under my floorboards again?" Merlin whispered, passing the staff to Gaius' hand.

"No one should notice an old man needing a walking stick," Gaius returned in the same quiet tone. "And you're straight on to the vaults to deal with the pixie? I will see you in three days' time at the twisted oak north of the clearing outside the lower town. Unless I have a message for you before then."

"Gwaine or I will check the hollow every day," Merlin promised. Deliberately avoiding answering the old man's first question. No, not _straight_ on to the vaults.

"Be careful," Gaius told him, as they shut the door of the guest chamber behind them, and prepared to part ways.

He bit his tongue on a flippant, _what could go wrong_ , and instead responded with a smile. "I will."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur eased himself down in the hot water, willing the tension to relax from his body as he leaned against the towel positioned for his comfort. Focusing deliberately on releasing each muscle – and then having to do it all over again.

It wasn't that he needed the wash. He'd cleaned himself quickly but adequately, after the day's ride and before the grand banquet. And near the height of summer, it wasn't because he welcomed the enveloping heat. The banquet was over. The marriage proposition declined without offense, the alliance remained secure.

He'd stood in his place at Elena's side to capture the attention of the entire hall. And for two minutes of silent attention, his father had worn an expression of contented satisfaction, believing that Arthur had resolved himself to obey, and to please.

 _Elena, you are a wonderful woman, but…_

She'd known what he was going to say. Their private picnic had been awkward at times, but once the topic of betrothal had been broached – Elena as keen on marrying a stranger as he was, but resigned to make do with security and respect in a relationship instead of love – they'd managed to reach an understanding. _We are both here out of duty… I hope one day we both find the love we deserve._ He felt sure their fathers' agreement and cooperation would endure for the term of his reign, and Elena's. Only, not together.

Godwyn had worn an expression of benign surprise. Sighed, and tilted his head to share a loving sigh with his daughter, before lifting his goblet to Arthur in return. Uther had not been pleased to accept what he could not change, but diplomatic enough to mimic Godwyn's benevolent acquiescence.

At least, while they were in company with the visiting royals.

Arthur planned on making an extended hunting trip after Godwyn's departure in a couple of days – it would do both him and his father good to be apart for a week or so. The king could adjust to his son's minor act of rebellion – the incident itself not resolving according to plan, as well as the ramifications of Arthur's attitude – and chose whether to address it more seriously, or ignore it entirely, when Arthur returned.

He shifted, feeling the water make lapping ripples against his skin – chest, upper arms, and knees. The air wasn't hot and moist as he inhaled, anymore, the water slowly cooling.

Too bad it wasn't as easy to coax mental relaxation. Now that the issue with Elena and his intended marriage had been settled, his mind returned to a deeper and less time-sensitive matter.

The more important reason for Arthur's planned absence from Camelot. The answers and half-answers, hints and incredible claims he'd heard from Gaius this morning were tying knots in his thoughts that the hot water couldn't ease.  
Even though answers wouldn't change anything for Merlin. Even if Arthur understood his servant's past, his secrets, his abilities and achievements – _achievements_ , he snorted to himself; a month ago he would have considered it an achievement for Merlin to arrive on time in the morning, or carry all his armor back from the training field without dropping something, or muck the stables without getting it in his _hair_ \- it couldn't bring him back. It couldn't change what happened.

But if Merlin had worked and sacrificed, and risked, for Arthur… He felt that he was bound to honor that. If he owed a debt, he should pay it back however he could. And, justice was the duty of a king.

He rather wished he could have talked to Merlin before all this. _Would you have listened to him? Would you have believed him?_

The water was cooling. And he was beginning to wonder if investigating the truth of the matter was going to finally put his mind to rest, or only raise more unanswerable questions to plague him the rest of his life. Arthur sighed and gripped the sides of the tub, pulling his feet under him to stand up from the water, and reached for his towel.

To his surprise, the length of thick cloth crossed the distance to his hand, and his jerk of reaction almost caused him to trip or tip the tub.

"Oh! I'm sorry, sire, I didn't mean to startle you!"

"Orryn," he said. "I told you I could manage on my own, you were dismissed for the night."

As Arthur stepped to the rug and wrapped the towel around his waist, reaching for the second to dry off with, the servant clenched his jaws around an unseemly yawn, and any possible answer. Merlin would have let it crack his face in half to remind Arthur of the late hour and make him feel guilty for keeping him up. _Merlin_ would have been out the door before Arthur had spoken the last syllable of _dismissed_.

"I've hung your nightclothes there by the screen," Orryn said perfunctorily; Arthur heard the unspoken addition, _where you prefer them_. He'd learned not to try to actually put them on Arthur, either.

"You really didn't have to stay," Arthur told him, padding across the stone floor. If he'd know the man was just going to stand unnoticed in the corner while Arthur soaked and thought…

"I prefer to empty the bath immediately," Orryn said, hurrying to reclaim the buckets he used for carrying water.

Arthur scrubbed the towel over the back of his neck to cover his cringe. He'd forgotten how this master-servant familiarity worked both ways; he'd need to make more of an effort to learn Orryn's quirks also. After tonight, he'd have all the palace staff pitying Orryn having to lug unnecessary water up and down stairs so late at night.

Three years ago, it hadn't occurred to him to care how his whims might affect anyone else. It hadn't occurred to him to mind the impression he made on commoners and menials; he'd assumed respect would come with his rank and title, his ability to demand it. Merlin had taught him in surprising and abrupt ways, true respect was earned. And, that the respect of all his people was important, not just those of higher rank or power.

He was dressed when Orryn returned after his first trip, trousers only on a midsummer night, the cool stone pleasant under the soles of his bare feet as he leaned on the ledge to gaze out the open panes of the window into darkness. Waiting for a stray breeze, and mostly in vain.

"Might I bring your highness anything on my return?" Orryn asked, setting one bucket down to close the door carefully and correctly. "Something to drink, or a fresh fruit, perhaps?"

"No." Arthur turned, still leaning on the wall, to watch the servant refill his buckets.

Merlin would have left the door swing open, or kicked it shut behind him without worrying about the noise. Merlin would not have offered to do more work. He would have said something stupid and random which Arthur would mock – and then find himself responding honestly to an unexpected, _What's wrong, Arthur?_ Merlin would have offered advice unasked and it would have been surprisingly sound.

He would have chattered and snickered with Gwen at the banquet, half-attentive in his place by the wall behind the high table – he'd known that Arthur quite liked Morgana's maidservant, in spite of the strictures against pursuing an official relationship. He'd even encouraged Arthur in pursuing an unofficial relationship. He'd give Arthur that look of derisive agreement and Arthur would tell him off or throw something, even recognizing how Merlin's approval solidified his confidence that he'd done the right thing.

And he _had_ to stop comparing the two servants, for his sake as well as Orryn's.

Arthur was suddenly and inexplicably curious to know what Orryn thought. "You probably think I'm an idiot," he remarked.

The servant nearly spilled his bucket of bathwater, and couldn't quite hide his look of horror at Arthur's suggestion. "My lord! Of course not!"

Did he even know what Arthur was referring to? "Elena, I mean," he added. "A beautiful blonde princess, and I declined to ask for her hand in marriage." Did Orryn know that Arthur occasionally daydreamed about what Guinevere might say, if he ever… And if he was aware, would he approve?

Orryn stared at him, mouth opening and closing in a very close though unintentional imitation of a fish. And if he had been Merlin, Arthur would have… _No_ , he told himself sternly. _Stop it._

"The…" Orryn hesitated. Arthur waited. "The choice was yours to make, was it not, my lord?" The servant nodded to himself, to answer his own question or reassure an uncharacteristic boldness. "Then I trust you had good reasons."

Arthur could hear Merlin's voice quite clearly in his head. _I think you're mad, I think you're all mad. People should marry for love, not convenience_. Though Merlin had never shown more than a passing appreciation for a pretty girl, he'd had definite romantic – girlish, Arthur would've call them to his face – tendencies.

He said slowly, "I don't have a choice, whether or not to rule Camelot, but by heaven, I do have a choice as to _how I'll do it_."

Orryn processed that, gave a little bow as he turned with two refilled buckets for the door again, whether in agreement or simple acknowledgement, Arthur couldn't tell. Yet.

He added, "Thank you, Orryn, I appreciate you staying late tonight."

"My lord." Nothing more than doing the best job he could, for the fuzzy-haired servant.

A flash of movement caught the corner of Arthur's eye and he turned instinctively to identify it. His mirror, hung over the washstand, and at this angle it reflected the doorway to the antechamber, opposite the main door to the corridor, where Orryn was heading.

It reflected the figure of a man, leaning casually against the wall just inside the door, dressed in dark trousers and a dark cloak over a plain white shirt, hood down around the shoulders.

It reflected Merlin. Absolutely beaming with pride.

Arthur's throat closed with a feeling that was nothing like fear or sorrow. Even guilt, or a momentary uncertainty of sanity.

Hope.

 _Hope?_ _what_?

He felt an answering smile begin to form – uncrossing his arms, he strode forward before logic could catch him, moving where he could see that antechamber doorway, and not just a reflection.

There was no one there. Not a hint of sound, not a breath of movement disturbed the empty air.

"Did you see that?" Arthur demanded, hurrying his steps to glance down the passage, around to the other room – which was deserted.

"See what, my lord?" Orryn turned in the open doorway with difficulty, burdened as he was.

"Nothing, I suppose. Never mind." Arthur returned to his bedchamber as Orryn closed the door carefully behind him again.

He sat on the edge of his bed, leaving the curtain and window open. It probably ought to bother him, the thought that he was seeing things; the secondary option that a spirit might have been present, in some way.

But it didn't.

He sprawled across his bed and closed his eyes to sleep, still feeling that hint of a smile. And if he dreamed, it didn't disturb him, and he didn't remember it.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"If you unlock the door," the pixie said, grimacing in a way she undoubtedly thought would be appealing, "I'll forget your part in this cruel deception. I'll forget about you entirely, and my esteemed majesty never has to know. He can be downright dangerous when he's angry, and believe me, nothing makes him angrier than not getting his own way."

"You're sure he's not a distant cousin of the Pendragons?" Gwaine returned flippantly.

She shook the bars and screwed up her face in expression of offense. He hefted his sword and she stepped back, swiftly for her round bulk, beyond reach of the blade, though he hadn't been menacing her, exactly.

"Look, here's the deal," he added. "You and me, we've been left out of the action for tonight. I'd prefer it to go another way – I like to consider myself indispensible in a fight – but I know not to join one I haven't got the weapons for, right? You'd be wise to admit the same, don't you see. My friends deal with your changeling – we wait it out – and you can be free to run and hide and avoid your angry, dangerous king finding out your failure. That sounds reasonable, doesn't it?"

The pixie glared at him, then focused on the lock, opening her mouth to spill out a phrase - that Gwaine knew for a spell when her eyes flared a brief gold.

"What are you doing?" he asked unnecessarily.

She ignored him to speak again, and her eyes flared, though the door held. She made to step forward, hand reaching as if to grasp a bar, but halted when he raised his sword again in clear warning, and growled in frustration.

"I wonder if Merlin knows you can do magic on your own," he said.

"You best run and hide, little knight," she spat at him without taking her gaze from the lock.

"Oh, I'm not a – right, then," he said. Abruptly he changed tactics to dart down the corridor, out of her sight, before she could use magic on him – he had no defense for that. More than one man had learned too late that Gwaine did realize, discretion was occasionally the better part of valor.

He slipped past a break in the wall, hearing a whooshing _boom_! and the clatter of the door; he guessed it had been blasted off its hinges. The pixie gave a cry of victory and temper; the guard at the head of the stair raised no alarm.

 _I must remember to compliment Merlin on that sleeping spell, most effective._

Gwaine readied himself, listening to the fast shuffle of footsteps – she thought he'd taken to his heels, long gone – risked a peek to see her take the first step of the upward stair, avidly focused on reaching her destination and charge. A second step later she was out of sight and his blade, enchanted by Merlin, was bare in his hand. He rounded the corner, sprinted back on silent tiptoe – and leaped up the few stairs she'd gained to ram his sword through her body almost to the hilt.

She arched – she shrieked – she shimmered and shivered, transparent and then invisible and then gone, a pattering pile of dirt forming on the step from seemingly nowhere. There wasn't even any blood to be wiped off his blade.

"Hells," Gwaine uttered into the silence, taken aback.

Well, at least there wasn't any body to be gotten rid of – though he was glad it wasn't his job to explain how that door had come off its hinges. He sat on his heels with his back to the wall, just out of sight of the guard, if he woke, and waited.

A little over an hour, if he was any judge. Then he heard soft, hurried footsteps approaching downward – Gwaine took a chance, straightening and leaning out to stop Merlin's descent with an upraised hand.

"Don't step in the pixie," he said lightly, and Merlin's eyes dropped to the strange little pile of dirt, pebbles and dust.

"What happened?" he said, placing his foot next to the wall on that side to continue down, peer around the corner at the grate door, propped crookedly in the back corner of the corridor.

"She had magic," Gwaine said. "Blasted through the door. I took her from behind with my sword. How'd it go with your end of things?"

"Fine I guess." A smile lurked in Merlin's blue eyes, and he seemed happy, as he hadn't been since Gwaine found him. "The sidhe is gone, the pixie is gone, and Arthur is fine."

"Job well done," Gwaine agreed. But maybe, enough excitement for one night? "Let's get out of here before the guard wakes up, yeah?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Hunting?" Guinevere said blankly, half-hidden by the door of Morgana's bed-chamber.

"Yes, can I come in?" he said. He'd been waiting for an opportunity to talk to the king's ward and her maid all day, but the conversation he intended – as that with the court physician - bordered on treason, and couldn't be held just anywhere. "Leon and I will be leaving at first light, and I wanted to talk to – to Morgana, and to you, before we go."

She glanced over her shoulder – presumably at her mistress, unseen by Arthur – then nodded, and held the door open for him. Morgana was seated before her dressing-table, occupied with her hair or her jewelry or some such; at least she hadn't started the process of readying herself to sleep yet.

"We've only just bidden Lord Godwyn and Elena farewell," Morgana said without turning to face him, "and now we have to say goodbye to you as well?" She pretended to pout.

"It's only for a few days," he assured her, then ventured, "as long as it takes us to get to Ealdor and back." Both girls were startled into looking at him; Gwen covered her mouth with one hand, dark eyes shining with sympathetic emotion.

Morgana frowned. "Why are you –" she said sharply, the finished on a sigh, turning back to the baubles on her dressing-table. "Oh, because of Merlin."

"I suppose, if you wanted to come," he said, mostly to Guinevere; she was the only one meeting his eyes.

She brightened, but Morgana said, shortly and negligently, "We can't. There's no way we can explain our presence on your hunting trip to Uther."

"Maybe we could tell him…" Guinevere subsided at a single glance from her mistress, and gave Arthur a rueful and rather teary smile. "Give Merlin's mother our love, then, sire?"

"I will," he said. Perhaps another time in the future, on another excuse – though the lack of one wouldn't have stopped Morgana, before. Perhaps she was nervous about leaving the citadel.

"What did you want to discuss before your little hunting trip?" Morgana prompted, rubbing the engraved back of a silver hand mirror absently.

"A few days ago, I had quite a conversation with Gaius," Arthur said, and caught a flash of something from Guinevere – remembering that she'd made an effort to spend a little more time helping the old man. It had been Arthur's impression that Morgana had generously released her from the duties of companionship, when actual chores were finished. "What is it?" he said to her.

"He's told me a few things also," Guinevere admitted, looking to Morgana nervously. "I asked him, if it was true Merlin healed my father."

"And it was," Morgana returned, not really a question. Guinevere nodded; Arthur reminded himself that Gaius hadn't actually been there to witness. The blacksmith himself hadn't been aware of sorcery worked on him, as Arthur recalled, had shrugged off a miraculous healing as simply, the way things go sometimes. "Hm." The king's ward flounced a bit on her velvet-padded cushion. "That long, he'd used magic. And didn't tell any of us."

"Can you blame him?" popped out of Arthur's mouth unintentionally. "It's illegal, punishable by death – look what happened when he admitted to one defensive spell to save my life when half a dozen knights had already seen him!"

He was well aware that he'd said _illegal_ , not _evil_. But that was probably not a relevant differentiation to anyone present except him, as the future administrator of the law.

Morgana was not pacified. She bristled, setting her face into a cold lovely mask while green fire sparked from her eyes.

"I'm sorry," he relented. "I didn't come to argue. But to ask, of those things that my father mentioned the questioner had reported to him, do either of you know any more details?"

"What do you mean?" Morgana said haughtily.

"For instance, you know that Merlin did in fact help free the druid boy," Arthur hinted.

"He did trap the goblin," Guinevere mentioned, after a moment's silence. "We – had to give Gaius a poison, so he'd be dying and the goblin would leave his body."

"Merlin poisoned Gaius?" Morgana demanded, spinning right around to face them.

Guinevere nodded, twisting her hands together. "We had an antidote ready – I was supposed to give it to Gaius while Merlin got the goblin into that odd canister."

"Antidote," Morgana said sarcastically. "Lovely."

"What about you?" Arthur said. Maybe she had another headache; she could be very ill-tempered when she had a headache.

"Arthur, that was weeks ago," she said, once again finding the contents of her dressing-table more interesting. "I don't remember what he said."

Arthur began to pace in a slow amble. "Gaius said he saw Merlin practice the spell that helped kill the griffon – and the same spell might well have been used to kill the questing beast after it wounded me and I was unconscious. I believe what Merlin said about _not_ doing something, like freeing that renegade druid."

"Or my father," Guinevere added softly. He remembered how upset she'd been at the time, trying to reason why her father would try to escape before a trial. Morgana tossed her head, shifting as if uncomfortable.

"You said something to me about Sophia Tirmawr, didn't you?" he added. "You warned me… I didn't listen to you, I think, but it's not very clear in my memory."

"And you expect it to be clear in mine?" Morgana returned sharply. "I don't know. I don't remember, either."

He stopped a pace and a half from her seat. "Do you have any idea what he might have meant, when he confessed to killing you? Why he might have said anything resembling you wanting to kill anyone in return, maybe even something Aerldan or my father misunderstood?"

"No, I've no idea," she said immediately. "Arthur, both of them said he was babbling nonsense – and you know how difficult he was, all the time."

Her attitude troubled him. He asked in a low voice, "What happened, between the two of you?"

Morgana twitched her shoulders and didn't look at him. "What makes you think something did?" she said.

Arthur glanced at Guinevere, now clasping her hands together in front of her chest, recognizing that she knew what he was getting at. The year Morgana had been gone from Camelot had changed her, but she categorically refused to discuss anything that had happened with anyone, even Gaius or Gwen. _It was horrible_ , was all she'd said, with a shudder, _I want to forget it_.

He remembered, now, that moment when he'd seen her last, clasped in Morgause's arms, as the knights of Medhir collapsed lifeless and conversely the king and everyone else in Camelot began to wake. He'd been fighting the undying knights, but Merlin had been right there beside Morgana when she'd been taken.

"Do you blame him for what happened to you?" he said gently. And she stiffened perceptibly. "No, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to offend – you should be angry with me, Morgana, I failed to save you, or find you that year. It wasn't Merlin's fault, what could a servant do against a sorceress?"

"But he wasn't just a servant, was he?" she spoke with a bitter venom that startled him. "He had magic even then, didn't he."

Yes, Arthur supposed that was true. Though he still didn't blame Merlin for not challenging Morgause – he remembered that dragging lethargy of the enchantment on the whole city. Felt like brain and hands and tongue were all wrapped in wool, the tug of slumber so insidiously insistent he could hardly think straight.

Was that was Merlin meant, maybe – they thought Morgana might be dead, when they couldn't find her that year, vanished almost literally into thin air, and maybe he felt guilty for not saving her.

Only – Morgana hadn't known about his magic then. Or when she returned, until the rest of them had found out, she had been cool to him several months before that fateful patrol.

"There must be –" he began. _Something else_ , but she didn't let him finish.

"Arthur, do you mind leaving me in peace from your questions?" she said impatiently. "It's late and I'm tired and I don't see that anything he said matters at all anymore. I don't want to think about him or talk about him, I want to forget!"

 _It was horrible, I want to forget_. And yet, she'd stood on the balcony of her own free will to watch Merlin burn. Which made him wonder if she was really saying, _I will never forget._

"Of course, Morgana," he said. "I apologize for bothering you. I will see you when I return."

"Until then," she said sarcastically.

No, _Have a safe trip_. Not even, _Good night._ Guinevere frowned at her back, following as Arthur retreated to the door.

"Take care of her," he said quietly to Gwen, the door again halfway between them.

Her dark eyes were sad, and it gave his heart a pang. "I will," she promised, then called him back as he turned away. "Arthur. When the goblin, inside Gaius, accused Merlin of sorcery, and gave your father that book of magic, do you suppose it really was Merlin's?"

He pressed his lips together and shook his head to convey, _I don't know_.

"But Arthur," she went on, picking a bit at the wood-grain of the edge of the door. "He was locked in a cell to await execution then, too… And that night, he came to my house in the town to ask for help." Arthur nodded; he suspected he knew where she was going with this. "I didn't… ask him, then, if the charge was true," she admitted. "Gaius was acting so strangely, I just believed Merlin that he was possessed, and thought the accusation was only to get Merlin out of his way."

"That's what we all thought," Arthur said.

"But – he still escaped the cells. What if – what if he used magic then, too?"

Arthur felt something like a smile tug at his mouth. "I wouldn't be surprised," he told her.

"Then… why didn't he do that again? Why didn't he use magic to escape the cells last month?"

"I think he wanted his trial," Arthur said. "He told me, he hadn't done anything wrong." Disconcerting thought – had he meant for _Arthur_ to judge him, then, rather than Uther? _When they tell you what I said, don't hate me_.

"Yes, but – after that. When the trial went wrong and that horrible man had him. When he was _sentenced_ , Arthur, why didn't he do something to escape?"

"I think he couldn't," Arthur said slowly. "There was a rune, I think it blocked his magic." Except for that one explosive flash that freed him from the chair? "Aerldan – hurt him, quite badly…" An echo of a memory, Gaius' voice saying, _Sometimes it is best to leave the action to others…_

Two tears rolled down her round cheeks, and he released the thought. He kissed his fingertips and touched them, gentle and brief, to her lips.

"Please be safe on this trip," she whispered. "Ealdor is in Cenred's land, and it's been only four months since his army attacked Camelot."

He gave her a smile; her concern made him feel both warm and strong, somehow. "I'll be careful," he promised.

 **A/N: Some dialogue from ep.3.6 "The Changeling".**


	12. Crossing Borders

**Chapter 12: Crossing Borders**

"Don't unpack yet."

Merlin looked up from crouching over a new circle of stones, building the firepit that would be the center of yet another new and temporary home for them. Gwaine grinned as he jogged toward Merlin through the trees, a scrap of parchment held aloft in his fingers.

"A message from Gaius?" Merlin guessed, straightening.

"He says Arthur's got permission to leave Camelot for several days of hunting," Gwaine said, reaching Merlin's side and passing him the message. "But he thinks, Arthur might be heading for Ealdor."

"Oh." Merlin took the parchment, but didn't look at it.

The news wasn't entirely unexpected; he'd wondered if Arthur might make the trip, or send a message, or just make sure Gaius had communicated with his mother. He was glad to know his prince would go – a bit sorry-guilty at the thought of Arthur's state of mind at facing this particular responsibility – wondered a moment, whether he'd ever gone personally to the family of a knight killed in Camelot's service –

"No – Ealdor – _no_ ," he repeated. "That's Cenred's land." One of the reasons he'd been pretty sure Uther wouldn't try sending anyone after his mother, after his arrest – if it even had occurred to him. Not after the hostilities earlier this year.

"Yep," Gwaine agreed easily.

"What if he told Morgana he was going to go? He won't take a dozen knights for a guard – Uther would never allow – one or two, maybe…"

"This time, we're really going to earn our – oh, wait, they don't pay us for this." The other outlaw grinned, unconcerned at the prospect of risk and danger.

Merlin sighed in frustration. This secret was turning out to be exactly like his magic. Protect Arthur, but don't let him realize. Weigh his safety against the consequences of discovery, and often come out dissatisfied with the results.

"Can you go to Ealdor right away, kind of scout it out?" he said. "Maybe give my mother a bit of warning? I'll wait and follow, Arthur and whoever he brings along."

Gwaine nodded, checking the strap of his bag over his shoulder before swinging his hair out of his way. "You're going to be able to keep up with them? Riders on horseback for what, a day and a half?"

"If I can't, I'll find a way to slow them down." Merlin grinned back. On second thought, he'd be happy to see his mother again, himself.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"The border, sire," Leon tossed over his shoulder, with a glance. "Just over that ridge."

Arthur made a noise of noncommittal acknowledgement, his eyes on the carcass of a small doe slung over the back of Leon's saddle. Couldn't very well arrive at Hunith's door empty-handed, after all. And this way, they'd fulfilled the stated purpose of their trip, also.

His ears were alert, however, to the noise of the forest around them, not made by their own horses. So far, only made by innocent wildlife, but they were near Cenred's border.

Arthur could not get over the irony. He and Leon were both dressed plainly to conceal their identity, to enter a kingdom where discovery would forfeit both of their lives, and merely stepping over the border constituted an act of war. Even though they meant no harm and intended no wrong; they were merely looking for answers to better understand the truth about magic.

Had Merlin felt the same, three years ago as he traveled toward Camelot and Gaius?

He couldn't imagine intentionally entering Cenred's castle, far less spending three years there alone. Hoping no one would recognize him or give him away – he honestly wasn't sure he'd consider any information or enlightenment or training worth it. And yet… if Cenred had a son, who Arthur thought might, just might one day make a better ruler, more open-minded toward the Pendragons and Camelot – his family and his people – would he stay, and serve, and wait, and try to influence? Or would he step back at the first threat and let the son of his enemy die, in the hope that an entirely new line of rulers would prove more peaceful?

For a shamefully long time, he'd given Merlin no encouragement, no reason to put his faith in Arthur. Quite the opposite, he'd goaded the younger man deliberately, sure that Merlin would eventually give up and quit his job and that would make Arthur the winner of their contest of wills. Except…

 _I trust in your destiny. To be the greatest king Camelot has ever known. Trust in yourself._

Gaius had said, _He believed he found his true purpose, in serving you._ His _destiny._

"Never gave him much credit for patience, as a virtue," Arthur said aloud. Never gave Merlin credit for any virtue at all, really. Optimism, maybe, but he'd laid that more to Merlin's naiveté… have to rethink that, too. It was entirely possible that _he'd_ been the more naïve of the two.

"How's that, sire?" Leon reined in briefly to allow Arthur's chestnut gelding alongside.

Remembering Merlin's words, handing him his sword there in Arthur's room, before the battle. And earlier, tentative encouragement, _Look what we've got – you and me. I'm going to be at your side, like I always am. Protecting you._

 _You tried to tell me, didn't you. But how the hell do you think your death protects or serves me?_

"Cenred's army," Arthur said obliquely. "It was how many days after we rescued Morgana, that he attacked?"

"Within the week, I believe," Leon said. And, bless his taciturnity, didn't say, _Why?_

Morgana had gone missing a full year. Then, days after her return, Merlin had gone missing, and not even Gaius was able to say where. Arthur had never heard a decent excuse for it.

"How many years has it been since someone attacked the citadel?" Arthur said. "It's never been taken, yet Cenred tried. Why?"

"Because he had that sorcerer on the inside, among the refugees," Leon answered, though he knew Arthur already knew this, too.

The question had been answered months ago, when their investigation into the magic surrounding the deaths of Sir Oswald and Sir Ethan before the melee, had ended with finding the disreputable peddler-sorcerer who'd sold the blood-crystals to the would-be assassins dead in his own tent. One of the knights had recognized the man as having sought refuge in the citadel during Cenred's siege – and the blame for the treacherous skeletal army had been laid to the dead man's account as intuitive.

Since Morgana had seen no one when she destroyed the focus of power in the vaults. The same week she returned – and she and Merlin had quarreled, apparently.

If he was his father, he'd probably be more suspicious of Merlin's disappearance, because of his newly-discovered ties to magic. But he'd seen the look on Merlin's face as the servant pointed out the first skeletal attacker, over Arthur's shoulder as he tried to order the younger man out of the thick of the fight – numbing horror. As good as Merlin had evidently gotten at hiding his magic, he could not hide reactions or emotions; he'd known nothing of that part of Cenred's plot.

Arthur was pleased his father hadn't thought of it at the time of Merlin's trial, the fact that the servant had come from a village within Cenred's land. Once the peddler had been declared the obvious traitor, the matter had been closed and forgotten, as far as Uther was concerned.

But what reason would Merlin have had to quarrel with Morgana over that battle? Something offensive enough to last months; Morgana still would not speak of it, and neither of them discussed it with anyone else? Well, maybe Arthur needed to speak to Gaius again about _that_.

"He hasn't the men, surely, to mount a full-scale attack like that again," Leon said, referring to the ruler of the territory they now rode through.

"But he might have sent that band last week," Arthur said. "The patrol I was supposed to have accompanied?" Moments passed in contemplative silence, broken by the sound of their mounts' hooves over the bracken of the forest floor.

"But his spy, his sorcerer," Leon said, "was killed dealing with those two who were themselves killed in the melee."

Arthur growled in dissatisfaction. "So quickly he can get _another_ spy into my father's court?" he said.

Leon gave him a troubled glance. And then, another. "Sire, if you expect… trouble, on this trip, I must insist we turn back to Camelot's territory. I can't protect you alone, and I believe –"

"It's all right, Leon," Arthur assured him, pressing his mount into a faster walk to take the lead from his knight. "Only Morgana and Guinevere know where we're really going."

"To – Merlin's village. And his mother," Leon said, leaning forward to avoid a low-hanging tree-limb.

Arthur didn't tell him, _I saw Merlin the other night_. Wide awake, not drunk… He didn't say, _I_ thought _I saw Merlin_. He wasn't sure if he hoped he'd see Merlin again, if he'd even begin talking to him as Gaius did. If he should even mention the sighting to the old physician. If it might be a sign of illness or instability – too reminiscent of his father's malady just prior to Cenred's invasion - or if somehow… He knew so little of magic; even without crystals and incantations, if it was possible... that what he'd seen was _real_.

"Something I have to do, I'm afraid," Arthur sighed. If he was going to be able to accept Merlin's execution as fact in his heart as well as in his head, and move on with the rest of his life.

Leon had lost comrades, too; he understood the need to do sometimes irrational things, to come to terms with the loss. He gave Arthur a sympathetic nod, and both of them returned their attention to the enemy territory all around them.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Ealdor was quaint and picturesque.

At least, Gwaine amended as he adjusted the pull of his pack over his shoulder muscle and quickened his stride, the countryside around the village was picturesque. And _quaint_ disappeared almost entirely, up close, blended into _industrious_ and _frugal_ , and then finally into the peasant stubbornness of making something out of nothing, everything lacking at some point and to some extent, except perhaps contentment.

Something his mother and sister never really learned, he mused, the satisfaction of surviving on wits and skill rather than position and influence, after his father's death and King Caerleon's cold shoulder. Something Gwaine respected – though his tool for carving something from nothing was intended for fighting, not farming – this life could be as much of a gamble as his was.

He'd spent the better part of an hour circling the land surrounding Ealdor, but found no evidence of soldiers or fighters or the passage of more than one or two people further out from the village, since the last rain. Which was comfort of a sort; if any of Cenred's men tipped to the prince of Camelot in this little border village, it would not be by accident. His arrival in the village itself had not gone unnoticed by others, but he sensed mostly curiosity instead of wariness, which told him that it was a peaceful village, and not accustomed to visitors of the violent sort – which also reassured him that Cenred's men did not make a habit of frequenting the place.

The house that's furthest to the southeast, Merlin had said. _House_ being a generous term, but there was a woman sweeping the dooryard with a twig broom as he approached – her hair folded into a faded green scarf and an apron keeping her drab brown dress clean – he expected the inside would be at least as well-cared-for as the outside.

Gwaine was twenty paces away, when the broom halted and she looked up, shading her eyes to watch him saunter toward her. He stopped at the corner of the fence – needed mending in two, make that three, places – and thought, of course this is Merlin's mother. She fairly exuded calm comfort; the worry lines he could guess were for someone else.

But he asked anyway, that was polite. "Are you Hunith?"

She nodded, coming to meet him with a tired smile, and her hand outstretched. "You have a message for me?"

"In a way." He gave her a winning smile. "I'm Gwaine." Anything further he might have said was forgotten in her quiet gasp, and sharpened, hopeful gaze.

"Is he with you?" she said, giving him a quick once-over as if looking for signs of violence, and searching the open ground and edge of the forest behind him. "Is he all right?"

"He's fine – he's probably not long behind me." Gwaine explained, "Prince Arthur is on his way here to see you, we think, so Merlin is traveling near him to make sure he gets here safely."

"Oh." The word was a sigh, understanding and relief, and the smile was more genuine, a soft feminine version of Merlin's wide friendliness. And though her eyes were dark in color, she looked at him with the same keen perception her son always did, as if he saw right through Gwaine - and still found him worthwhile, accepting him as he was unconditionally. "So you're Gwaine."

"Yes, I –" Words stuck in his throat as she propped her broom on the fence and reached her arms around his shoulders in a gentle and unselfconsciously heartfelt embrace.

"You took care of him, then."

"Best I could." Gwaine cleared an inexplicable hoarseness from his throat and winked furiously a few times, to be able to meet her eyes with a grin that was more characteristic of him when she released him. "He doesn't always make it easy."

She smiled. "I know it well," she said. "Thank you."

"It's all right." He adjusted his pack. "I don't always make it easy on my friends, either." _All one of him_.

"How is he?" she asked. "How is he _really_?"

He wondered how much Gaius might have told her in his letters about Merlin's injuries, how close he'd come to the fire. "He has his days," he answered vaguely; she could see for herself when he came.

She caught something of his disinclination to discuss her son, and wasn't offended. "Why don't you put your things inside?" she said, motioning to the gate and retrieving her broom in the same motion. "You're hungry?"

"I could eat," Gwaine admitted. He'd swallowed a quick mouthful or three for the noon meal while he marched; that was a couple of hours ago, but it wasn't near sundown and dinnertime yet. "But save it for Arthur. I don't know how long we have before he arrives."

She made a noise of comprehension and agreement, as he came inside the fence. "He doesn't know, does he," she said, "that Merlin is alive?"

"No. And," Gwaine hesitated momentarily, "Merlin prefers to keep it that way?" At least for now…

Hunith made a _tsk_ -ing noise, but didn't object as she welcomed him into her home.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

When he and Leon reached Hunith's home, Arthur thought for a disorienting moment that they'd made a mistake. There was a man inside her dooryard, sleeves rolled past his elbows, pounding one of the stakes that formed the fence into the ground with a heavy-headed mallet.

Arthur halted, right there in the street, and his gelding nudged at his elbow. Leon, also dismounted at his side to walk through the village in a less conspicuous way, paused to glance at him for guidance. No, definitely Ealdor – he looked around – and definitely Hunith's house.

The man straightened from his work, letting the hammer rest on its head on the ground, the handle leaning against his thigh as he pushed dark hair out of his face. And grinned at them; Arthur was surprised to recognize him.

"Gwaine," he said, taking the last few steps almost involuntarily.

"Arthur," the other returned insouciantly. "I would say prince, but your title isn't worth anything this side of the border – except maybe a bounty."

Leon's hand was instantly on the swordhilt at his hip – and Arthur's was on his wrist, stopping his draw. "It's just Gwaine," he told Leon, who eased reluctantly, still suspicious, as he turned back to the outlaw. "This is Sir Leon."

Gwaine hefted the hammer over his shoulder and came to the fence, his free right hand held out. "I didn't meet half you boys properly, the few days I was in Camelot," he said.

Leon, for his part, only hesitated a moment before accepting the salutation in kind. "My pleasure."

"Oh, mine as well," Gwaine said easily. "I'm guessing since you crossed the border in disguise with his highness to come here, you must have been favorably disposed toward Merlin."

"You heard about –" Leon began.

"I heard." Gwaine's smile lost its luster; his dark eyes were still sharp – on Arthur, mostly. "You didn't stop it."

Arthur didn't bother with excuses. "No."

Gwaine's gaze darted between the two of them – intuitive, for the drunk Arthur had taken him for. But for a fighter of his level of skill – and still alive – yes, Arthur supposed the man had to be clever.

"Not for lack of trying, though," Gwaine said, not quite a question.

Arthur didn't care to discuss his faults and his failures. "What are you doing here?"

"Because Ealdor doesn't have a tavern, right?" Gwaine quirked a roguish eyebrow, then made a rather vague gesture around the dooryard. "Helping out. Someone should, don't you think?"

"Have you been here long?" Leon asked. More than casual conversation, it was beginning to take stock of their surroundings, so they wouldn't be taken by surprise by enemy fighters.

"Not very," Gwaine answered.

And Arthur, without moving a step, withdrew from their conversation, as Merlin's mother stepped out the open front door, to lean against the jamb with her arms crossed over her apron. He heard Leon ask a question about signs of Cenred's men anywhere in the area, recently.

"Hide nor hair," Gwaine answered. "For the last season at least, I've heard. The rumor is, he's keeping pretty close to his castle since he failed to take Camelot."

Arthur looped his reins over one of the fence-stakes and stepped toward the break that would let him into her dooryard. Each beat of his heart was exquisitely painful as he neared – fearing her. Not _her_ exactly, but _this_.

There was sorrow on her face, but peace and acceptance, too. Sympathy, rather than the blame he feared. He felt guilty for the relief that cooled his spirit in an instant; he'd guessed Gaius would be the one to tell her, but he was glad he didn't have to bear the first news. Just the blame. He said, "You know."

She nodded. "Gaius wrote me."

His hands felt large, clumsy and heavy at his sides. He burst out, "I'm so sorry." Horribly inadequate, but he had to say it. "For your loss."

Hunith stepped down from her threshold and came right up to him, unfolding her arms to wrap them around his shoulders. It took him a minute to realize she was embracing him – and another yet to recover from the instantaneous thought, _this is where he gets it from, the affection and compassion…_

She said, in his ear, "And I for yours, sire." He drew back, surprised to see a smile on her face, though it was melancholy and her dark eyes were shining full. "It has been three years since I had to let him go, let him leave my life and a daily companionship," she said. "I have had longer – and longer than that – to adjust to the idea of losing him. Your pain –" She moved one hand to the front of his shirt. "Your pain is still fresh, and I am sorry for it."

"I –" He had a strong, unreasonable urge to tell her, _I saw Merlin_. "I wonder, if you mind, talking to me about him? I have some questions…"

"Not at all. It's cooler out here, but more private inside?"

He glanced back to see Leon and Gwaine still in conversation – by the look of their gestures, Leon was getting another fighter's opinion of the safety of their position, temporarily in enemy territory. The knight caught Arthur's glance and nodded – he'd keep watch for trouble.

Inside, Hunith crossed to the fireplace, lifting the lid of a large cookpot to stir and check the contents, and Arthur's mouth watered at the aroma. Rabbit stew, maybe with new carrots and cabbage. She turned, wiping her hands on her apron, and gestured him to the small table, flanked by two short benches. He moved slowly, absorbing the interior of Merlin's home for most of his life, not unfamiliar to Arthur, as he'd been here before, but unappreciated until now.

He sat, leaning over his hands on the rough tabletop; she poured both of them a horn cup of water before joining him on the opposite bench.

"Gaius told you how it happened?" he said, slow and careful to cause neither of them extra pain. "The arrest, and trial, and – everything?"

She held his gaze. "Merlin knew the risks of his life. He knew you needed him, though it was his own choice to stay."

"Gaius told me, a little about what he's done," Arthur said haltingly. "With his magic. For Camelot." For _me_ , how that hurt. "He told me how, twenty-three years ago, my father concluded and declared – magic was evil, and anyone who used or supported the use of it, irreversibly and dangerously corrupted –" knowing this must sound like an insult to her, he hurried on – "and how he thinks my father was wrong."

Her smile was faintly proud. "What do you believe, then, Arthur?"

"I think it – can be dangerous," he said. "But it's –" he glanced around, trying to put his thoughts into words, to explain, and his eyes fell upon one of Hunith's kitchen utensils lying on a side cupboard. "I feel a bit like a child with a knife," he said. "Scared of it. Being told its dangerous and can hurt people and I ought to let well enough alone. Let those who understand the thing make decisions on its use – or its prohibition." Only, because he was the king's son and heir, the next ruler of the kingdom, he couldn't simply stand there holding the question of magic, doing nothing with it.

"But you're not a child any longer," she said softly. "To believe everything you're told simply because you love and trust the person telling. None of us are infallible, sire… not mothers or fathers… not even kings."

"I know," he said, and let the tears come to his eyes.

It hurt unbearably, to think that perhaps Merlin had been killed for a mistake, even if kings had a legal right to lethal caprice, and Merlin had known the risks beforehand. But it hurt more to think his servant had been merely the last in a long line of magic-users – some maybe guilty of other capital crimes, but others just as surely innocent of any other wrongdoing. And it had taken his sacrifice to open Arthur's eyes to ask, had those innocents lived, could they have spent long lives remaining innocent.

"I wanted to ask you about – some things he said, at his trial," Arthur went on, rubbing the heel of his hand into the corner of either eye. He wanted to make this decision with all facts at his disposal, and there was so much he didn't know, or didn't know rightly. "Questions he couldn't give an answer to, that I thought, you must know."

"Of course, sire."

"About – how long he's used magic? When he started?"

It was an argument he'd had with himself more than once – and the latest time, when Morgana had been caught trying to smuggle the young druid boy out of Camelot. How do you condemn a child for absorbing his parents' teaching? Copying what he saw them do? As every child did, from the farmer's son to the king's.

Counterargument. The parents knew the risk of exposing their child to such corruption.

Granted, but the younger the child, the less able they are to distinguish right and wrong for themselves. Do you punish the child of a thief for stealing as harshly as you punish the criminal parent who taught and encouraged them to break the law? Do you pardon based on youth and release the child with strict warning how infraction of the law will be punished in future?

Except, _magic_ was different. Like murder unforgivable, a character flaw or stain that was irreversible, and more – every instance made it more likely to reoccur until one day there was nothing but evil left in the soul, and all words and action toxic.

Only, with reverse reasoning, if the last premise was false… And Merlin had said, he never knew his father.

"He was not a year old," Hunith said, her eyes vague and humid with fond memory. "When I was working out-of-doors, I discovered that he always managed to get his hands on some plaything – a pine cone, a shiny rock, the blossom of a nearby plant. I was sure he'd choke or poison himself, sooner or later, but… no matter what precautions I took, he always had something to amuse himself in hand when I turned around again."

She could smile about it now, but Arthur glimpsed how harried young Hunith must have been at times, alone and with a precocious baby like Merlin. He couldn't stop a smile himself, to match her whimsical expression.

"But indoors." She leaned her elbows on the table, looking at Arthur again. "Anything that wasn't tied down or put away, out of sight, ended up in his cradle." She sighed again. "When I saw it, the first time, my wooden stir-spoon floating through the air to his little baby fist – and you've heard a baby gurgle when he's pleased with himself, haven't you? – I was a bit relieved, honestly, to finally figure out how he was doing it."

Arthur thought he might sympathize with that complicated emotion, the more he thought about the incidents that highlighted his time with her son.

"As he grew up and learned to do things by himself, fetch and carry and climb and reach, it was easier to teach him to hide it," she said. "He didn't _need_ it, you see. But he was so helpful, always, and so thoughtless at the same time… and when he was – nearly twelve, I guess, we started having trouble with the fire. Or rather, I suppose, we never had trouble with the fire."

He found himself remembering more mundane situations, from his bedchamber hearth to a rainy campfire, as she continued.

"Wet firewood lit in an instant for him, every time. And more than once a larger fire – the tool-shed, and the grain-field, lightning-struck or a dropped lantern – just, _whoosh_." She gestured, and he interpreted. Not a sudden raging inferno, but the opposite.

 _So why_ , a little voice asked, cool and clear in the back of his mind, _if he can extinguish a fire,_ _why didn't he – oh, that's right. The magic-block._

Which might have failed once, at his release from the questioner's chair.

Arthur shook his head. "So that's true, then. He didn't know how long he'd done it, or when he started. No one taught him, and he never exactly learned it." He shoved himself back from the table, bracing his palms on its rough surface as he tried to absorb what he hadn't quite believed from Gaius. Twenty years, then, of magic in Merlin's past. Magic without spells. Magic that was innocent and helpful.

Even if his father was right and Merlin was simply an aberration of natural law, an exception to the rule that magic corrupted the goodness in a person's heart, twisting them slowly or quickly into something capable of only evil – who was to say he was the only exception? His father's law didn't allow for exceptions, mercy or pardon granted on a sorcerer's good reputation or character. And it should, shouldn't it? If the death of someone like Merlin was just, then there was something wrong with the definition of justice. When the law would require someone with the ability to help or save lives – Arthur thought suddenly of Gaius and his foresworn magic – to instead stand by and do nothing… he shook his head again.

"Why Camelot," he said. "Gaius told me, Merlin came to learn to control his – his magic." Almost he'd said _gift_ , what an odd slip of the tongue that would have been. "To hide it. But why send him at all, and why to Camelot?"

She didn't answer for a moment, and he suddenly remembered who he was, to her. It was a bit like asking Gaius to tell the truth about his circumvention of Arthur's father's law. They were over the border, here, but not that far over the border.

"A moment ago, I told you that I accepted his departure from my daily life three years ago. That I had adjusted to the idea of that necessity longer ago than that. Sire, my little boy was special. The things he could do – that he was happy to do, whatever I asked, and only for a smile of appreciation and being told _good job, well done_." She hugged herself, leaning forward on the table. "It frightened me, at times, so badly."

"What do you mean?" Arthur said. Merlin's power had scared his mother?

"If anyone had found out. The knights of Camelot had been here, before Merlin was born, seeking those with magic. In Camelot he would have been killed, my boy…"

In Camelot he had been killed, Arthur thought bleakly.

"But what if someone else had found out? What if someone else was telling him, _do this with your magic_ , and my boy so young and eager to please? Another king, like Cenred, with ambition and without scruples? A bandit chief like Kanen? Even the druids aren't free of fear and resentment and the desire for revenge. I was afraid of having him torn from my arms to be killed, but I was terrified of him being _lured_ , and then to use his magic for terrible things, before he realized, before he learned right and wrong and how to choose the right thing to do, even if it's harder. I was afraid of him being _forced_.

"I knew Gaius. I knew he'd renounced magic in order to serve his king, the better to serve the people of Camelot as well, as a physician. I knew he'd protect Merlin, not only from the danger of discovery, but from himself. There is only so much instruction a young man will take from his mother, after all, before he goes looking to prove his ideas and beliefs and questions practically."

Arthur tapped his fingers, not meeting her eyes. Wondering if his next question might be crossing the line. But she'd been remarkably open with this discussion, as Gaius had been – they wanted him to know the truth, he felt instinctively. "Would you tell me – about Merlin's father?" he asked hesitantly. "Why did Merlin not go to him, when he left here? Gaius said, he knew him."

"Yes," she said softly. "He did. Gaius sent him here, when he had to flee Camelot for his life. For his… abilities."

"His magic," Arthur said. So his father had hunted Merlin's father, specifically. That made him feel sick and lost – had Merlin known that?. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be – you were a very small child, then. And if he hadn't left Camelot… he might never have come here. And we might never have had Merlin."

 _We_ might never have had Merlin; Arthur included himself.

"When he left Ealdor, he didn't know about Merlin. And he didn't tell me where he was going, it was safer for me that way. And he never came back."

"Oh." Arthur's face felt warm; he wanted to apologize again. Feeling responsible, now, for being the reason Merlin had never met his father.

"Gaius knew where he was, though," Hunith continued. "Merlin did meet his father, finally." At his surprised look, she explained, "It was almost a year and a half ago. Very close to the time your Lady Morgana went missing."

Well, no wonder Merlin hadn't said anything. Arthur tried to remember his servant asking for the time off to take a trip, to visit even a secret, magic-possessing relative, and couldn't. They had all been busy, then – driven, even.

"I gather he'd been living off the land, quite rough, only the basics," she said, faint regret in her voice but no recrimination. "Alone, and very bitter… no, I don't regret sending Merlin to Camelot, after all."

"He said he came looking for a job," Arthur said, with chagrined amusement.

Hunith's smile was gentle and clear. "It is how most of us make a living," she reminded him. "Even young men with strong magic. I was glad he found you."

Arthur felt his eyebrows shoot up his forehead. "What?" he said stupidly. She'd been glad her secret-sorcerer son was in daily contact with the Pendragon prince?

"That magic," she told him. "I knew he couldn't stay here, and not only for fear of being killed or _used_. That sort of power was never meant for a village farmer. Often I prayed to heaven, why me. Why him. Maybe he did at times, too. But when he saved your life and entered your service, he found purpose – and you cannot underestimate the value of that in a young man's life."

Arthur had never thought about that. He'd known since the earliest age what his purpose was, even if he resented it sometimes. The boys around him, from squires and lords' sons to the servants' children, likewise. "When he said, he was happy to be my servant," Arthur said softly, "he wasn't talking about chores. He was talking about his magic."

"Merlin… never was interested in using his magic for himself. I taught him, maybe too well, to dislike drawing attention." She reached across the table , to cover his hand with hers. Arthur was reminded of Guinevere's hands, small and gentle but rough and strong and used to hard work. He was reminded of _Merlin's_ hands… "He needed you, sire. He needed a goodhearted prince to serve with all _his_ heart, and he needed a friend who wasn't overawed by his abilities, who wouldn't encourage him to use them carelessly, either."

A goodhearted prince. Was that what he was? Make him proud, Guinevere had said, because he was, quite proud of you. Arthur had gone, evidently, from how long have you been training to be an ass, my lord? to destined to be the greatest king Camelot has ever known.

"And, from all I've heard, you needed him as well," she added.

All the magical threats he'd faced. Would he have come out victorious – or even alive – if he hadn't had a… what, a guardian angel? It was just his luck, he'd get one like Merlin, every time he turned around provoking him out of arrogant complacency. And, exactly what he needed.

But – now what? Now that Merlin was gone?  
He wasn't aware that he'd spoken aloud until Merlin's mother answered. "That is for you to decide, sire. Good or bad or neither, magic _is_."

And sometimes, evidently, those who had magic hadn't chosen or pursued it. Maybe that was what it came to – choice. The thought of adjusting the law made him nervous for a number of reasons; the idea of allowing even the most closely-supervised magic was even worse. Like passing out knives to all the village children and encouraging them to run. It would never be a simple consideration, he was sure of that. He would make mistakes too, he was sure of that. And if – or when, maybe, there was a thought guaranteed for sleepless nights – his mistakes led to someone's death?

But, did he want to rule over people or slaves? Did he want to earn his subjects' obedience through love and respect and trust – or did he want to demand it by threat of force? Strength of violence, or belief?

He wondered, briefly, how often this happened. Someone who wasn't looking for magic, found they had it all the same. Perhaps had to leave home and family behind, leave Camelot for a place far distant where they might live without fear. Or stayed to try to hide in plain sight, terrified daily that they or another would give away their secret.

"All else aside, Prince Arthur, I would be pleased for you and your companion to stay to dinner, and sleep here the night?"

He focused on her face, honest and open and generous, when she had so little, so like her son – a man Arthur _knew_ , though not fully til too late – his breath caught in his chest, even as he nodded agreement and gratitude.

"If you're sure you have enough?" he said. "We brought you venison on the hoof, but the preparation –"

"I appreciate that very much," she told him. Her smile widened as she turned to her hearth to lift the lid of the stewpot and stir it again. "For tonight, though, I don't believe even Gwaine can eat this much."

"He'll try, though," Arthur assured her, and was surprised and pleased to hear Hunith's light laugh in response.

Even after the death of her only son, he thought. Even with the son of the man responsible sitting at her table. Such forgiveness. He was aware that he'd experienced that from Merlin, also, more than once. For deliberate insults – and for unintentional ones.

He glanced around the interior of the hut – earth and dust and thatch, crude furniture and minimal implements, small comfort and yet so rich in love and wisdom.

And maybe that was part of this process, too. Forgiving himself.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Only the moon saw Merlin creep to the door of his mother's house, thief-like, with a stealth that would have astonished Arthur. Only, Arthur was the reason for his secrecy. Again. Or, still.

He knew from watching all day under cover of the forest that Leon was keeping guard around the back where the horses were tethered – sitting and dozing, but alert enough to hear approaching horsemen, or any other unusual disturbance. Gwaine had taken a bedroll a hundred paces into the forest in the direction of Cenred's castle. Just in case.

Merlin put his hand on the latch of the door and paused to let his magic seep out, dampening any sound, and opened it. Slipped inside, and pulled it shut behind him.

Deep orange glow from the coals on the hearth. Long low shadow on the ground – light glinted from the sword next to him, golden head pillowed on his arms. Merlin couldn't help smiling as he breathed a spell – not hard and fast and absolute, as he'd done with the guard on watch when he and Gwaine had entered the citadel a few days ago, but the lightest brush against Arthur's consciousness, deepening and assuring his slumber.

A moment more, Merlin watched him. Hoping Arthur wasn't taking this too hard. That he wouldn't be too angry, when he found out.

Proud of him, though. He'd never really envisioned sitting down to a conversation about magic with his prince, telling his stories and offering his explanations. Even if now, perversely, he wished it could be him, talking openly to Arthur.

He took a long step over Arthur's legs, around the half-curtain that hid the bed from the rest of the room, where his mother slept. Carefully he seated himself on the edge of the bed, gently put his hand on her arm outside the thin coverlet. She startled up with a quiet gasp, but she must have been expecting him, for she sat and pulled him into an embrace with a single swift motion, whispering his name beside his ear.

"Mother," he chuckled softly. Around the lump in his throat, that formed at her familiar and comforting scent. For a distraction from emotion, he glanced at the bedside candle and a flicker of magic resulted in a flicker of flame.

She moved back to take his face in her hands, and study him by the dim light. "You need a haircut," she admonished him, smiling through a pair of tears.

"Gwaine is worse," he argued softly, mindful of Leon behind the house. Raised voices might rouse the knight to investigate if something was wrong with Arthur, even if the prince never woke. "He'd never let you close with a pair of shears, though."

Her attention turned – fairly predictably – to his hands. Gentler than Gaius, she inspected his left, with the small finger shortened by a joint, and padded yet with a bandage. Then the right, middle fingers strapped to the bark-splint a couple more weeks. And the fingernails that were still growing back.

"They're healing fine," he whispered to reassure her. "Hardly ever hurt anymore, unless I'm clumsy." He'd meant it as a lighthearted joke, but the way she held his hands in hers made him think, for a moment, that she'd kiss them, as she'd done with his hurts when he was small.

Then she sighed and released him, to touch his face once again and turn him toward the light. "The body can heal. Far more, I always feared to look in your eyes and see you'd lost a piece of yourself _inside_." She dropped her hand to his chest. "But you're all right."

"Yes, Mother," he whispered. She nodded, and more tears spilled, and he hugged her again, letting her rock him a little though he was taller than her, sitting next each other on the bed. "I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be," she said. "Don't be. I'm proud of you – I'd keep all harm from you if I could, all your life – mothers are like that – but I know it isn't possible. But you're here now, and that's enough."

"I can't stay," he said.

She nodded, remembering as he did, maybe, that she'd been the one to say it, before. "Arthur needs you."

"Yeah."

"I'm glad you have Gwaine," she told him. "I like him."

Merlin found he wasn't surprised. "Gwaine's good for a laugh. And a lot more – I saw he fixed the fence."

"You should tell him." She met his puzzled look with fond reproach. "Arthur, I mean. You would be proud of him, he's really taking the question of magic seriously. I think he misses you."

"I can't, yet." Even if heart and soul ached for it, to come clean on his last and worst lie, to his master, his prince, his friend. "I know he wouldn't say anything to Uther, but he wouldn't be happy about me staying in Camelot. He wouldn't believe it was necessary, he'd be afraid I would be caught again – he might even try to force me to leave, like he did when he first found out. And there's Morgana."

"Lady Morgana," she said, and there was sadness there; she remembered also, no doubt, the beautiful and spirited young woman who'd come to fight bandits at Arthur's side and Merlin's. "Yes, Gwaine told me, she is not a friend anymore."

"Until Arthur can understand why she can't know I'm alive," Merlin said, "he can't know. If Morgana knew, then her sister would know – and probably she'd find a way to make Uther suspicious too – and it would be a hundred times harder, keeping Arthur safe the way we're doing, with those two and anyone they can hire and all the knights of Camelot maybe, looking for us. It's safer for me, it's safer for _him_. He can't know. Yet."

She offered a tired, patient smile. "I am proud of you as well, Merlin. The man you've become. Though sometimes I still see my little boy when I look at you."

He didn't mind that, as much as he might've when he'd been younger. He grinned and said hopefully, to make her smile widen. "Is there any dinner left?"

It worked.

 **A/N: A bit longer, this, but no one complains about longer chapters, do they? I didn't want to end, Arthur still doesn't know, without a reminder why this is still important, at this point in the story. I think, though, that next chapter will have Arthur starting to suspect/hope… enough clues coming together, maybe.**

 **And, thank you so much to reviewers that I haven't answered in a PM – I appreciate you all!**


	13. Evasion and Observation

**Chapter 13: Evasion and Observation**

In Arthur's dream, he lay on the floor of Hunith's hut and listened to mother and son speak in low serious tones, seated on a bench by the firelit hearth. In Arthur's dream, it was the occasion of his first visit to Ealdor, preparing to defend against a bandit's raid.

Only, in his dream, Arthur already knew of Merlin's magic.

The vision shifted, and he tightened his own bracer around his servant's thinner forearm. _Whatever happens today, please don't think any differently of me… Please don't hate me._ In the dream, Arthur knew very well that Merlin was trying to say, magic. Not fear. Because Merlin's fear was rarely for himself and what the enemy might do to him, but for his friends in danger – and for their reaction to his secret.

He grinned full into his servant's face and clouted his shoulder and tried to find words to explain a rather simple but profound feeling. Confidence. _Look what we've got – you and me._

The door of the hut slammed open in interruption and Morgana was there, dressed in a man's armor, shaking long black curls from a helmet she'd only just removed – in a motion he thought he ought to recognize – but in the dream, she had not come to warn them of another approaching enemy.

In the dream, Merlin tensed and raised his hand in a silent warning gesture of his own – prepared in an instant to protect Arthur from Morgana. Only, why would he need protection from –

Her green eyes sparked with hate, and she raised her hand –

And the vision shifted, to the road outside the hut. Arthur watched the same motion of a hand raised, palm-out. Only this time, he watched Merlin from behind, standing next to his village friend as a whirlwind, called by wordless magic, dispersed the rest of the bandit mob.

Finishing the battle. And, without further bloodshed.

Except for Merlin's own friend, who'd saved Arthur's life at the cost of his own. And had taken Arthur's blame of the magic performed, dying for a prince not his own, in any sense of the word.

Arthur remembered the dream abruptly, as he and Leon rode across the meadow in the early morning dew – having broken their fast with and said their goodbyes to Hunith and Gwaine – heading back to the border and to Camelot. He reined in just as abruptly. " _Hells_."

Leon did the same beside him, polite curiosity. "Sire?"

"Right here," he realized, glancing about him to recall more surely. "It was right here. Merlin had a friend – I thought he was a sorcerer – we gave him a knight's funeral. For saving us all with magic." The gelding stepped restlessly sideways, and Arthur took a firmer grip on the reins. "We stood just here, just after his friend had died, and I told him magic was evil."

There was understanding on Leon's face, though he hadn't been there, and the story had not circulated among the knights, for obvious reasons, and Arthur's scattered sentences didn't half do it justice. The gelding shifted again, and Arthur looked back at the village, thatched huts and stake-fences and fields surrounding, where Gwaine stood watching them depart, and life was hard but simple. And at that time, maybe three seasons after he'd been in Camelot, safer for Merlin?

"He came back with us anyway," Arthur said. And still, couldn't understand it because he knew well how little he deserved it. "Like some… damn foreign emissary of magic, waiting for me to pull the wool off my eyes and start thinking for myself."

The gelding was impatient; Leon hid it better but Arthur figured the knight was impatient, too, to get his prince back on the legal side of the border. He pressed his heels to the chestnut flanks to get their journey underway, again.

"Just like he came back with us from that damn patrol," Arthur added. "I still can't figure that. He had to know exactly what he'd be facing." Even if Arthur himself had been sanguine in a juvenile way about the possible outcome of a trial. Self-deceptively hopeful. "If he was as powerful as I keep hearing, why –"

"Riders, sire," Leon said shortly.

Arthur twisted in his saddle to see his knight just facing forward again. And across the open ground, two hundred paces maybe, a couple dozen riders, spaced unevenly, broke from the forest beyond to set spur to their mounts.

Cenred's men. It took half a second to see that he and Leon were the quarry – and a fool to think that a double patrol would come here, today, to ride down a pair of horsemen outside a village that boasted zero equine resources, for curiosity's sake.

Arthur cursed, and kicked his gelding to a gallop, leaning low over the lashing mane to urge his mount to the fastest speed possible, over this terrain. Hoping they wouldn't meet with accident or delay – hoping this patrol had the sense to stay on their own side of the border, once crossed – hoping they two could outrun Cenred's men long enough to make them reconsider the risks of chasing them deeper into Camelot's territory.

He panted. The horse puffed great bellows of air. Next to him, a stone's toss and making his own way, Leon's beast crashed through undergrowth. They leaped a fallen tree trunk with a heart-stopping pause and jolt of landing, the leaves and twigs slashing against Arthur's face.

Moments passed. A league, maybe, to the border. The landscape passed, blurred into brown and green lines by the wind-whipped tears blurring Arthur's vision. The border ridge, finally – and down.

Quick glance back. Cenred's riders following, bearing down on them. Possibly the men in the lead more familiar with this territory than he or Leon.

Urge the mount across a stream – up the next hill at an angle, slowed by the need to climb. Arthur's gelding shied inexplicably – the next instant he saw an arrow still quivering in the tree it had struck, instead.

 _Hells_. They were within range. Again he thumped the gelding's ribs with his bootheels.

Zip – startled, he ducked. That arrow had passed close enough to his ear to hear, to feel the whisper and heat on his face –

Heat, what?

The arrow struck another branch, glanced off – a flaming arrow. Why were Cenred's men bothering to set their bolts alight, that was a besieging tactic and hindered accurate aim –

 _Whoosh_ – another one, very close – this arrow tore right through a thorn-bush, just ahead and to Arthur's right, and – in the height of summer – it blazed into flames so suddenly Arthur's gelding shied again. Spread so suddenly he felt the heat like a gust of wind at his back.

He risked a glance over his shoulder.

Then wheeled and reined in so abruptly the gelding danced on back hooves, as Leon shot past him.

Arthur could still see Cenred's men. Clustered in a collective halt, desperate to control panicking mounts getting in each other's way. And separated from him by a veritable wall of flame, licking a line swifter by the moment – _curving_ , unless it was his imagination - back around either side of the enemy pursuit.

Do not look a gift horse in the mouth. Even if he had an absurd notion to open his mouth and holler a thank you to – no, he wouldn't even think the name. Because it was impossible. And in any case, the response would be, _get moving, clotpole_!

Turning his head and the gelding's back toward Camelot, he again spurred to a gallop, catching Leon up and racing away without mishap. Slowing after several moments to look back – no sign they were being followed. No sign of the fire spreading, though there was little they could do about that if it did, except outrun that, too.

"Hold up – sire," Leon gasped, and Arthur, agreeing, pulled the pace back to a slow canter. "What happened, did you see? We've lost them, haven't we?"

"I think we have," Arthur answered. Though probably it was wise to push their pace and maybe hide their tracks also, if they reached water or stony ground. They were still at least a day's distance from Camelot, though it would be sooner than that, they might expect to meet and join a patrol.

"What happened?" Leon said again, looking back for himself.

Arthur reduced the pace yet again, to a fast walk they could maintain for a couple of hours – and still keep the horses able to leap to an immediate and sustained gallop, if need be. "I think they were using flaming arrows. Maybe to try to trap us, setting fire ahead of us. But the fire broke out too late – it was between us." Allowing them to get away.

"Flaming arrows?" Leon said incredulously. Arthur shrugged and the knight faced forward, adding, "That was lucky."

Lucky. Was it really.

Like facing down a poisonous monster in the Camelot cisterns, his sword doing no good – like it hadn't done any good against the griffon, or the stone gargoyles of the citadel brought to life, or the questing beast – but the torch suddenly billowing flame outward in a gust of air that did the opposite of extinguishing it?

Like a blast of hot air lifting Arthur right across the room. Just after Merlin had said, _Gaius get him away from me before…_

Tool-shed and grain-field, dropped lantern and struck by lightning – whoosh, cold and dark and unharmed. _It'll be all right, I'll think of something. Trust me_.

"Leon," he said. "Did you watch Merlin's execution?"

The knight grimaced, without facing him. "I saw it, my lord, yes."

"What happened, _exactly_?" Arthur said.

Leon took a deep breath and let it out slowly, his eyes ahead of them but distant. "If you're sure…" Arthur grunted an affirmative, very sure. "They put him on the pyre, chained his hands together behind his back, around the post. Your father made his proclamation, Merlin was shouting for you, but…" Leon's mouth twisted. He glanced at Arthur and went on without finishing, which Arthur was glad for; he knew very well that Merlin's shouts for him had gone unheeded. "They laid torches to the kindling. He was coughing, still shouting. It looked like, maybe, the smoke got to him."

Arthur remembered seeing that, before. If there was anyone present who felt sympathy for the convicted magic-user, they prayed for asphyxiation from smoke as the cause of death, rather than the consuming fire itself, which was pain far more excruciating.

"Then the fire caught, all of a sudden, and blazed up, the whole pyre at once. White-hot, too bright to look into. Quarter of an hour, maybe, before it died down, and… it was over."

"Could you still see his body?" Arthur asked, quite calm.

Leon's jaw clenched; he shook his head. "There was nothing left but ash, and the metal chains," he said.

And a boot buckle. But it was far too late, Arthur knew, to sift the ashes for any other evidence of confirmed death. Those would have been disposed of immediately, buried deliberately or scattered on a refuse pile and covered long since. He supposed he could find out who'd done the job, ask if they'd noticed… what, bits of bone and charred flesh that had once been the bright, lively person of his servant, his friend?

If they hadn't, what then?

But if they had? Was he brave enough to hear that? To have that last irrational painful vital hope that somehow - because he hadn't seen it, experienced it clearly – there was some other explanation, _smothered_?

"Hunith seems to be taking this quite well," he commented. "And Gaius."

"May I speak plainly, sire?" Leon was watching him, now, between alert glances fore and backward.

"Of course."

Even with permission, the knight didn't continue immediately. "I know what you're thinking, Arthur." Another long pause; Arthur neither encouraged nor discouraged continuation. "When I was a squire, years ago, early spring it was, we were given a rare afternoon off, most of us boys at the same time. We went down to the river about an hour's distance from my family's home. It was cold from the winter run-off, high and swift and full of driftwood, snags. We weren't allowed to swim, just playing, throwing stones and so on. Daring each other to walk out on the trunk of a tree that had fallen, half in and out. My friend Caedfyll, went further than any other. And he fell in…

"Some ran back to the estate for help, some of us ran along the bank to try to help. The water was faster than we were – he was still trying to keep his head above the surface when the current swept him out of sight."

They rode for a time in silence. No indication of pursuit, but they weren't lagging at all, either. Arthur said nothing, only waited to listen further.

"To my knowledge, his body was never recovered," Leon finished. "For the longest time, I let myself believe that he'd somehow survived. Far downriver, maybe, some peasant family rescued him and cared for him. I told myself, they were poor, they couldn't pay a messenger, they couldn't afford to travel to bring him back. Maybe he'd hit his head, and didn't remember his name or where he was from – but Caed was alive and well and happy, somewhere. I missed him, but I could picture his life where he was, and someday, I was resolved to ride downriver and find him. And he would be all right, my friend, maybe just waiting for me to come.

"When I remember Caed today, it still catches me by surprise, that hope. I still find myself thinking, he's only _probably_ dead. But _possibly_ , he's a farmer somewhere who can't remember his childhood before being pulled from the river by his new family. But he has a wife and children and he's happy…"

"Why are you telling me this?" Arthur's mouth and throat were dry; he recognized that hope. And reached for the water-skin tied to his saddle to cover his consternation.

"Perhaps it hurts no one if you half-believe Merlin isn't really dead. Just gone, drifted past your reach, alive and happy in a better place. Waiting, maybe, for you to arrive and see him again, but still okay til then." Leon said gently, "Perhaps it hurts no one for you to feel like he can still see you and is watching over you, somehow."

Arthur remembered several years of childhood, believing that very thing about his absent mother.

"But –"

"I know," Arthur interrupted. "I know he's dead." _Probably_. "I know he's not coming back." _Except, I saw him, just by the antechamber door_.

It might not do anyone any harm to think of Merlin escaped from the pyre somehow and living in some faraway land by now, a quiet calm life and meeting a quiet calm girl to spend it with. Maybe hearing stories of Arthur Pendragon that filtered in with travelers, and wearing a brilliant secretive smile. Waiting, always, for the right time to return – and the time never right, until at last so much time passed that it no longer mattered, whether an old friend was dead or alive and living a new life. Even, suspecting that Hunith and Gaius knew of it, and therefore didn't _grieve_ , though they missed him too.

It might be a bit more dangerous for Arthur to expect Merlin to be doing just that, close by. For Arthur to start looking in mirrors and around corners when he was alone, sneaking up the storeroom stairs in the physician's chamber to call Merlin's name and wait and _wait_. Even, to engage in skirmishes of any kind, relying on the false assurance of an unseen sorcerer secretly ensuring his safety.

"It's just… I'm not finished asking questions, yet," Arthur said.

"Even if the answers change nothing?"

Arthur did him the courtesy of thinking before he answered, unoffended. "When I believe that the answers will change nothing, Leon –" _not me, nor the future of Camelot_ – "I will stop asking. I promise."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine watched Leon and Arthur ride across the meadow toward the forest beyond. His pack – readied after prince and knight had taken their leave of Ealdor – waited out of sight behind the fence at his feet. He planned to follow them back to Camelot as soon as they couldn't see him following, and meet up with Merlin; he figured the sorcerer was already waiting somewhere further along the way.

And then the riders came.

He hissed two words he was glad Hunith was not around to hear, snatched up his pack, and leaped the fence, sprinting in pursuit of the mounted party – Cenred's men, he guessed, and sent on purpose to capture the prince they already knew had crossed the border.

Not a man of them lost focus on their quarry to check their rear – not that a solitary man on foot would have given them much pause. Gwaine knew he had no chance of catching up or keeping up over long distances, but the border wasn't far, about a league distant. Cenred's men would want to catch Arthur before he reached it; the enemy king would be in a much stronger position politically with that sort of situation, than if his men crossed into Camelot's territories to take the prince.

And, Merlin wouldn't want too much distance between himself and Arthur, especially as this was the most dangerous part of the trip for the prince; closer to the citadel they wouldn't need to worry so much. But Gwaine had a feeling his friend wouldn't let Cenred's men simply chase Arthur past him; where Merlin was, that was where the front line of this skirmish would be – and he had no one to watch _his_ back.

Gwaine scrambled, panting, as fast as he could over the rough ground of the forest, alert to any sign of fighting ahead of him – and therefore had sufficient warning to duck down between a pair of roots protruding from the base of an immense gnarled oak as the enemy horsemen came into sight.

Once hidden, he couldn't see them either, anymore, but he could hear them. Crashing back through the undergrowth in retreat both careless and resentful. Unhurried.

"Still say we ought to have found a way around."

"Shut your noise, you fool, anyone could see that fire weren't natural."

Scoff. "You superstitious ninny, one of 'em must've dropped a tinderbox or something."

"Lucky we only lost three. Damn fool horses spooking – and that prince long gone on his own side of the border."

"Cenred ain't gonna be happy we come back without 'im."

"He ain't got men to waste on failure, either. An' if we cross over and tangle with another patrol he'll pick one of us to feed to his witch."

Gwaine smiled, satisfied to wait until he could no longer hear them. Then he stood – making sure he could no longer see them – and jogged toward the border, easily following their tracks. Three bodies he noted – one flung hard enough against a solid tree-trunk to break back or neck or both, two trampled by the patrol's passage and he did not look closer. Beyond was a wide blackened strip of forest, perfectly cool now – his grin returned.

Casting about, it wasn't hard either to find the tracks of two mounts, headed straight for Camelot at a hearty gallop which would, he expected, last long enough that he and Merlin would have little hope of catching up. He slowed to a steady hike – they'd return, regardless.

"Here," someone called, and he recognized Merlin's voice, halting to scan the forest.

Merlin sat on his heels at the base of a black hawthorn, in an attitude Gwaine had grown familiar with – elbows tucked to his chest, hands elevated to ease the pain.

"That was you, I expect," Gwaine said, joining him. "The fire?"

Merlin gave him a rather wan smile. "They took a bit of persuading, to turn back."

"We'll never catch up to Arthur and Leon, now," Gwaine commented. He'd rather liked Sir Leon – another decent man, for a noble. Perhaps Camelot would turn out to be a place where the men called by that word acted like it, too.  
"I think he'll be safe enough on our side of the border."

Gwaine watched him a moment, watched his hands tremble slightly. He wondered if that was because of the sorcerer's physical exertion, or magical. "You figure this was another abduction attempt," he said, "like that patrol last week?"

Merlin rubbed his forehead carefully with the heels of his hands. "Yeah. I'd guess he told Morgana where he was going, and she sent word to her sister, and she told Cenred, and…"

Gwaine sighed. "And they'll try again."

"Someday." Merlin lifted one hand, and Gwaine grasped his forearm to help lift him to his feet. "Come on. We've got to get back to Camelot in time to stand in the way again."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur and Leon reached the citadel mid-afternoon of the second day.

"Your orders sire?" Leon asked, as they passed the gate and the guard and entered the courtyard, their mounts' hooves clattering placidly on the cobblestones.

"Assume regular duty in the morning," Arthur said. "But, Leon –" he'd done a bit of thinking on the ride back, the questions he still wanted answers to, before he could resolve to leave the past in the past – "I'd like you to ask some questions, too." People would say things to a knight like Leon that they'd think twice about saying to the crown prince.

"About?" Leon said, with a hint of curiosity.

"The battle with Cenred's men, and our own ancestors' bones. I'd like you to speak to the other knights, guards, servants – as discreetly as possible – get as clear a picture as you can, where that sorcerer Cylferth was, what he was doing, saying, and so on, that night. The same for Merlin."

"Yes, my lord."

"Arthur?"

Both of them turned at Morgana's call, as she came striding out of the covered walkway to one side of the courtyard, the white silk of her gown billowing behind her, nearly obscuring the figure of her maidservant – warm and sweet, to Arthur's eyes, in a plainer apricot-colored dress.

"You're back," Morgana added, as she neared, giving both of them scrutinizing, all-over glances. "Safely." Her tone was odd – not the relaxed teasing he'd been used to from her, not yet the stark relief she'd sometimes shown after desperate if illogical worry. Her expression also – it was as though she struggled not to show inappropriate feeling.

But Morgana never considered her feelings inappropriate, no matter what they were – always she bared them for the world to see, defying any to try to correct her.

"Yes, as you can see," he answered, giving his attention to stripping his riding gloves off his hands.

"Arthur." All four of them turned at yet another call of greeting; Leon and Guinevere a moment later took an instinctive backward step, bowing their heads respectfully, as the king stood at the top of the main stair overlooking the courtyard, fists on his hips. "You have returned unharmed, but… unsuccessful?"

"Not at all, Father," Arthur responded. Hoping that the king had decided to let the unpleasantness with Godwyn and Elena's visit slide ignored. "But we met a village woman who needed the deer more than we did."

Uther nodded in acceptance. "Generosity is a noble character trait." A moment more he surveyed them, then turned to stride away.

Arthur let out a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding.

"You had no trouble?" Morgana went on. "No bandits, or…" She caught herself momentarily, then gushed, "I've been terribly worried – we've been terribly worried, haven't we, Gwen? It's so good to see you back. Safely." Over his quiet, _thank you_ , she added, "Come, Gwen." And stalked away without so much as an excuse.

Guinevere lingered a breath longer to exchange a quick conversation with her dark eyes – _How did it go? You look fine, are you all right? Merlin's mother was all right?_ He answered with a smile, and she brushed against him in following Morgana, her hand at her side finding his hand at his side for a brief but caring squeeze.

Arthur and Leon watched them go.

 _He killed Morgana as well, evidently, and now she wants to kill us._

 _As far as I'm aware, it's all true._

 _You don't know Morgana as well as you think you do._

"And Morgana," he said to his knight, speaking almost before he thought. "I want to know where she was and what she was doing during that battle also."

"Sire." If Leon was surprised, his voice did not give it away.

Arthur took the time to change and wash in his chamber – neat and clean and everything in fresh readiness, though Orryn was not present – before he headed for the physician's chambers.

Gaius was occupied with his drying-rack – evidently cataloguing needs or excesses or some such – scroll, quill, and ink on the table behind him for ease of notations. "My lord," the old physician greeted Arthur. "I am glad to see you have returned safely. I trust your hunt was successful?"

"I found what I was looking for," Arthur answered. There was something about Gaius' tone that made him suspect that the canny old man knew exactly where he had been, and why. He let some moments go by in silent, each adjusting to the other's presence. "When I spoke to you last, Gaius, you told me the things Merlin said during his trial and interrogation were true, as far as you were aware. You gave me answers on what you'd witnessed personally, but said if I didn't believe Merlin, I wouldn't believe you for the rest."

"That is so," Gaius returned. Evidently coming to the conclusion of his task, and doing Arthur the courtesy of giving him his full attention, hands clasped in front of him nearly hidden by his sleeves.

"I would like to know more." Arthur was careful to neither commit himself to a declaration of belief, nor to give conversation-ending offense. "What did Merlin tell you, about the dragon? He said he freed it?"

"Yes, my lord. I understand that the beast had called to Merlin in the early days of his arrival here, from his prison beneath the citadel. Perhaps from curiosity – I am certain it could sense him as another creature of magic – perhaps for its own purposes. I am unaware of how many times Merlin ventured down to speak to it."

"For the love of Camelot, was the boy completely witless?" Arthur exclaimed impatiently. To befriend a chained monster and sneak away occasionally for a chat?

Or just… completely lonely. The thought struck Arthur cold, as he recalled his reaction to the idea of residing hidden in an enemy court.

Gaius drew himself up sternly. "I understand that several times the dragon gave Merlin insight or advice or ability, in return," he told Arthur, very nearly scolding him. "Merlin told me, at one point, he'd given the dragon his promise to free him, for a piece of information vital to the saving of your life, and Camelot – though he was unable to gain the creature's promise for a peaceful escape."

"Hells," Arthur moaned, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. He could just see his skinny naïve peasant servant trying to bargain with a large angry cold-blooded carnivore possessed of magic and the experience of dealing with mankind for centuries. "He never had a chance, did he? _Idiot_."

No wonder Merlin had tried to apologize for the dragon attacking. No wonder he'd been so upset that the last man to control them had been killed by bandits before reaching Camelot. No wonder he'd been determined to fight at Arthur's side, the night they'd ridden to face the beast in the clearing - to protect Arthur's _armor_ , of course. Or die trying.

He blew out a sigh of frustration. "You know what I wish, Gaius?" he said. "I wish he'd been able to come and tell me these things, I could've–"

Oh, wait. Merlin had told him, the snakes in Valiant's shield came to life. He had told him, Lady Catrina was a troll. Arthur hadn't listened, had rather threatened him to mind his own business.

"Could've what, sire?" Gaius inquired mildly.

"Yes, I get it," he said angrily. "I was arrogant and foolish and blind. I didn't understand magic, and I didn't understand Merlin, and now it's too damn late!" His vision blurred, and he wiped his eyes angrily with the heel of one hand – one, then the other. Which was why he might've been mistaken, thinking he saw the twitch of a smile on Gaius' face.

"It is never too late to change, Arthur," the old man said. "To make amends for past wrongs. I still find myself doing that almost daily, and I am a very old man."

"How am I supposed to make amends to someone who's dead?" Arthur said intently. The physician didn't answer, but he didn't look away; he simply waited, and another of Arthur's questions occurred to him again. "Gaius," he said slowly. "In the dungeon, when you released Merlin from that chair Aerldan had him strapped into, what happened?"

"Truly?" Arthur watched Gaius consider whether to tell him, or not. "The rune cut into his chest was meant to block his magic – most sorcerers would have been unable even to sense its presence. But Merlin is different, it could not hold his magic back entirely, though I assume it greatly interfered with his control. And in the pain of removing the thumbscrew, he probably lost what little control he had."

And his magic had been strong enough, even through a block, to toss three grown men across the room. Killing the only one who meant him harm – was that luck again; Arthur didn't think so.

"But surely, the pain of a burning pyre would have been far greater?" Arthur suggested. Leon had mentioned a bright and lasting flare, as the whole pyre ignited and burned hot and furious for a while. But he'd also said, it looked like Merlin succumbed to the smoke, just before.

"You wonder why he didn't escape," Gaius guessed.

Arthur wondered also, why Gaius hadn't allowed him to help Merlin escape.

"Perhaps that is a question you should answer for yourself," the old physician hinted. "If Merlin was able to, why didn't he."

Another question trembled on the tip of Arthur's tongue, but he couldn't bring himself to ask. If Merlin was dead, Arthur needed to carry on, seeking answers and discovering the truth. If… if somehow, his friend's fate was not so _absolute_ … in that case, wasn't it a fair assumption, Arthur would find out sooner or later? But for the sake of sanity and safety, he couldn't _count on_ that.

Arthur sighed, and asked a different question, dully and with only faint curiosity. "Sophia?"

"Her father had magic – that I did see for myself," Gaius said, almost cautiously. "I was warned that the girl would try to drown you."

 _He killed Sophia Tirmawr in a lake._ Arthur himself remembered nothing of that night ; Merlin had followed him into his room to tell him – something, Merlin had always been nattering on in that irritatingly earnest tone that expected and persuaded Arthur to do the right thing, even as he resisted. Then, nothing until he was waking up, still in his room, with Gaius and Merlin next to the bed, and a herd of untamed horses loose in his skull.

"Merlin warned you?" Arthur said. And looked more closely when Gaius hesitated. "Who warned you, Gaius?"

"Was that the last of your questions, my lord?" the physician said only, turning to putter at his work table – mindless busy work, Arthur saw, straightening and organizing, only.

"One more question. Morgana."

A vial slipped from old fingers – but the bench beside the table broke its fall, and it simply clattered and rolled away under the table. Gaius exclaimed in impatient annoyance, kneeling awkwardly to retrieve it.

"Merlin said he killed her, and therefore she now wants to kill us," Arthur said. "You don't have any firsthand information on whatever incident he referred to, and Morgana said she had no idea, when I asked her –" the old man shot him an anxious look, which roused suspicion still further – "and I want to know what you think. I need to know."

"Need to know?" Gaius echoed.

Arthur wouldn't be side-tracked, but perhaps the old man would be more helpful if he knew what was at stake. "When Leon and I left Ealdor two, almost three weeks ago, twenty of Cenred's men were on our trail." A sharp look, but not one of surprise – Arthur wondered at that, but perhaps Leon had mentioned it. "Only Morgana and Guinevere knew I would be there – unless others guessed and gossiped?"

No response. Arthur continued.

"The morning Godwyn and Elena arrived, I was due to ride with a patrol that was attacked – probably by mercenaries – and quite close to Cenred's border. Who earlier this year tried to take Camelot by siege and by treachery – the very week we _found_ Morgana wandering alone in the woods. I have to tell you, Gaius, I hate to suspect a friend, but when it comes to the safety of my father and my people, I'd like to think I'm not always a brainless fool!"

Gaius stared at him a moment longer, turned absently to stare toward the window another moment, then nodded thoughtfully and lowered himself to a bench. "I cannot speak as plainly as I would like, Arthur," he said. "For the sake of promises I've made, and to protect other innocents involved. And, most again is hearsay."

"Go on," Arthur said. It would be for his enlightenment only, not for official report.

"Your father's illness, days prior to the attack," Gaius said, "was caused by an enchantment. There was an ensorcelled object in his chamber – found and burned, the enchantment on his mind was broken."

"And just in time," Arthur said. He remembered how Gaius had suggested he might be needed to assume his father's throne – and how glad he'd been that he hadn't, when Uther recovered. "But… that was before the refugees came," he realized slowly. "Before Cylferth would have had access anywhere in the citadel." Gaius nodded. "You think the sorcery that called the army of skeletons from our crypts was not his fault. But then, who?"

"When I examined the king's ward, upon her return," Gaius said slowly, carefully, "I found no injury, old or new. No evidence that magic had been used on her. No evidence of physical restraints, nor nutritional deprivation, nor even confinement – no loss of weight or muscle tone, no dulling of hair or eye."

"She'd been well-treated," Arthur said; it wasn't a protest.

"For what purpose?" Gaius returned. "We never received a ransom request."

"Why else would she have been taken?" Arthur said, frustrated.

"Why else indeed."

Arthur pressed his lips together and pointed his forefinger at Gaius. "You know, don't you," he said.

"Are you certain," Gaius paused, "that you're ready to hear this?"

Arthur pulled back. Reminding himself, this old man was not simple, nor completely open. Reminded a bit, of Merlin speaking to the great dragon - had he simply trusted what he was told? The old man wouldn't lie, he was fairly sure, but what about shading the truth, or deliberate omissions?

Only – what purpose could there be, in rousing suspicion in Arthur against an innocent person?

"We will talk again," he said only, walking to the door.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin stood from his resting place and stepped to meet Gaius, sorry once again that the old man had to make this journey. Even though sacrifices had to be made – and by more than just the three of them – for the sake of the crown prince.

"Ah, Merlin," Gaius greeted him with a brief hug.

Merlin patted his mentor's shoulder with his left hand – lightly, and without using his small finger – as his right was occupied with the full basket he'd brought to exchange for the physician's empty one.

"I've got the feverfew, lavender, and sage you needed," Merlin said. "Also some boneset and willow bark."

"Well done," Gaius said, shuffling through the tied bundles of greenery, letting Merlin relieve him of the empty basket. "How are your hands?"

A rote question now, but one Gaius never neglected. "It's been five weeks," Merlin answered, knowing that the physician had noticed, no more bandages. "I'm being careful. Only an occasional twinge."

"Good… good. No other complaints?" Gaius glanced over Merlin's shoulder toward the stream below the clearing. Gwaine stood there in water halfway to his knees, boots on the bank and trousers rolled up, the sharpened stick in his hand intended to spear fish for their supper – so far only marginally successful.

"Boredom," Gwaine answered over his shoulder, still intent on his task.

"Would you honestly prefer the alternative?" Gaius returned.

"Don't ask him that," Merlin said quickly, with a grin. Gwaine was like Arthur, preferring action to waiting, but even Merlin rather wanted their hand-to-mouth rough living to have purpose, after all.

"You might want to consider taking your petty thievery further afield," Gaius said, loudly enough that Gwaine could hear. Over Merlin's quiet protest that it was trade, not outright theft, he added, "There are rumors beginning to circulate, enough people have noticed, and have similar stories to tell."

"Is Morgana suspicious?" Merlin asked.

"Gwen seems curious," Gaius said, "though she hasn't made any connection between these rumors and _you_. But I don't think she chats over gossip with Morgana like she used to, either."

Merlin wondered if it would be inviting trouble to wish that whatever Morgause was plotting with Cenred – because he was certain she wouldn't simply give up, and only slightly less sure, Morgana took orders rather than initiating action – they'd just get it over with, already. He wasn't used to this sort of game – move and countermove and retreat to try again. He was more of an all-or-nothing gambler.

"Arthur's been keeping pretty close to home," he ventured. One patrol in the last fortnight since they'd returned from Ealdor, nothing more than a wide circuit around the citadel, visiting the closest towns. Perfectly peaceful.

Gaius made a noncommittal noise. "He's been busy," the old man said. "I had a very interesting conversation with Sir Leon, though, the other day."

"Oh?" Gwaine abandoned the stream, coming to join them with two brook trout twitching on the end of his makeshift spear.

"He used the pretext of a wrist sprained in a training session," Gaius told them. "He stayed half of an hour, though, casually discussing the events of Cenred's siege of the citadel. Specifically, my knowledge of your whereabouts through the course of the battle, Merlin. And Morgana's."

He stared blankly at the old man, who cocked an eyebrow as if he expected Merlin to catch on a little quicker. "Oh – you think Arthur has suspicions? Of me – or her?"

"Both," Gaius answered. "Although, if he does reach the truth about that night, she has far more to fear than you do."

"But still no proof," Merlin said. "Can you – I don't know – tell him to be careful, Gaius? If she thinks he suspects her, she'll act quickly to stop him going to the king, even if Uther won't want to believe it, maybe too quickly for me to be able to help."

"I have an idea," Gwaine said. "Why don't we abduct her in fact and make it look like she's left on her own? We'll plant evidence – leave a signed confession – _I betrayed you all because I'm a scheming_ –"

"Gwaine," Merlin warned. Gaius' eyebrow was up, also.

"Witch," Gwaine finished, far too innocently. "We could ransom her back to her sister – they won't have their spy in Uther's court anymore, and I bet we could get them to agree to leave Arthur alone…"

Merlin shook his head, amused in spite of himself. "That could go wrong in so many ways."

The outlaw shrugged. "At least it would be doing something."

"I have a feeling we won't have long to wait before they try again," Merlin said, glancing from his old friend to his new one.

"Why's that?"

"One thing I've learned about Camelot," he told them with a wry smile. "Things are never quiet for long."

…..*…..

 **A/N:** Almost entirely unrelated – and normally I'd post a note like this on my profile, except people don't read those often. NaNoWriMo 2014, several people expressed interest in reading what I'd written. For the last two or three months, I have been trying to interest literary agents in my original story – only to find out, it's too long for a first-time book by an unpublished author. I could split it into a trilogy with a little judicious editing, but I feel like publishers/agents probably don't want to take a 3-book risk on someone unpublished. I could hang onto it, like all my other original works, for the 'if someday' when I publish something, and they asked for other things I've written. But it just seems to me like, keeping a painting hidden in a closet for just in case you ever have a gallery showing. I mean, at least hang it on your living room wall, for your own company and family to enjoy, even if professional success never comes.

So. All of that to say, I'm giving up trying to sell "The Tune-Tinker" to the pro's, and have started uploading it on fictionpress. It's under the fiction-fantasy heading, same author-name (wryter501), probably updating once or twice a week. I would love to hear from any of you in reviews, if you've liked it – the themes, etc. are quite similar to my Merlin'verse stuff…

Also, catherine10:I'm sorry to say this won't be freylin, as it's in-canon and past season 2 already. And, romance isn't really one of my considerations for this story. The arwen is only incidental, and already established at this point, though it's not fully rooted yet (in-series Arthur did almost marry Elena around this time; my Arthur declined a few days earlier, but he and Gwen are not ready to try to buck the system or become secretly engaged or whatever). The epilogue won't go more than a year out, either, but hopefully the way I leave it is wide open for romance and adventure for everyone!... As far as other oc magic-users, that wasn't factored into the plot, either – though it would have been a good idea if I knew I wanted to include it from the beginning. Just now, though, I'm afraid it's going to detract from Arthur's journey to enlightenment and rolling the action toward the finale… but if it helps, head-canon for the future of this fic might include Gilli, Alice, Sefa, etc. in new and non-confrontational ways… (only, don't expect a sequel.)

OC's in general: I used a lot in my modern trilogy, b/c I only reincarnated our core Round Table cast. Otherwise I try to keep the named oc's to a minimum (in my 'Towers' series I added a few knights from legend, etc.) and only incidental, like Arthur's new servant here…

Kirsten: thanks for reviewing! Glad you liked Arthur&Hunith, and Arthur's progression!


	14. News of a Brother

**Chapter 14: News of a Brother**

For two weeks, Arthur tried to answer the question, Why would it be better for Merlin to go to his pyre, than to break out of the cells?

If he had escaped from imprisonment, Arthur was quite sure his father would have expended every resource, to catch him again. Double and triple patrols, searches and questionings and probably even a strike into Cenred's land for Hunith in Ealdor, even at the risk of another war.

Would Merlin really allow his own death to prevent that? Possibly. But surely he could have guessed that there would be those who could assure her safety if he couldn't, himself – Gwaine an obvious choice. Already he was performing the work of a son, evidently.

For two weeks, Arthur also watched the king's ward.

Morgana had changed; he thought those who had known her best felt the truth of that, except perhaps Uther, who was too happy to have her back, to go looking for trouble. Arthur tried to tell himself, it would be more surprising if she hadn't changed – but the question was, how much.

A year was a long time, and Morgana would not have been the first person to fall victim to enchantment, or even break under the understandable strain of the trials she'd been through, and agree to conditions she normally wouldn't consider. But how much of the changes might be due to the time she'd been gone, and how much might have happened before then?

Thinking of escapes and how they could be accomplished had set him to wondering about the circumstances of Morgana's. Kept for a year without a whisper of her whereabouts while an entire kingdom was looking for her. And then, they didn't have to fight through rows of mercenaries or sorcerers to break her out of a cell or locked room. They'd simply killed a dozen ill-trained bandits – and there she'd been, wandering.

What if, like Merlin, she hadn't escaped? What if she'd been allowed to slip free? Perhaps released when she finally agreed to keep eyes and ears open and pass information?

Leon's questions had resulted in an incomplete picture of the battle earlier that spring. Evidently Morgana had been busy in the makeshift infirmary, alongside Gaius and Merlin himself – though Arthur's servant had been in and out, sometimes joining Arthur in the middle of the fight as if he couldn't quite obey the order to stay in safety. Or as if he were guarding two people in two different places. And then, the king's ward had slipped away – no one had seen where, no one had noticed when – to emerge from the crypts with a strange splintered staff, claiming she'd single-handedly destroyed the enchantment that had raised a second army within Camelot's walls. The connection could not be made – what had alerted her to the fact and location of the magic – while Cylferth the peddler-sorcerer had been witnessed moaning and cowering among the other refugees throughout.

Arthur found himself in Gaius' chambers once again, asking questions that edged treason which he couldn't fairly discuss with any of the knights, even Leon. Morgana couldn't be trusted to answer honestly; Gwen shouldn't be asked to bear tales on her mistress; Merlin was gone.

"I realized something the other day," he said conversationally, closing Gaius' door behind him and beginning to stroll through the chamber. Picked up various vessels or utensils absently, to turn them over in his hands and set them down again.

"And what is that, sire?" Gaius glanced up from his desk, the curved glass he used to see more clearly the pages of the book on the desk in front of him hovering in his hand.

"I wondered, why Merlin didn't escape, if he could have," Arthur said. "What I ought to have asked you was, did you think he could have? In your opinion, was he capable of overcoming that block?"

Gaius sat back, placing his glass carefully on the open book, lacing his fingers together over his ribs. "Yes," he said simply.

Arthur set an empty dose bottle down deliberately, meeting the old man's gaze. Feeling very much like he walked a cliffside blindfold. _Am I crazy to hope_. " _Did_ he overcome that block?"

Gaius did not answer the question. "Your father watched a sorcerer burn, thought it good riddance, and gave it no more thought. He was not Merlin's only enemy."

Arthur straightened, feeling offended, though he was sure the old man hadn't intended it. "I was not Merlin's enemy. If he had escaped, why keep it from me? Surely you don't believe I would've told my father?"

The old man's gaze was keen. "If you had known such a thing, at the time, who would you have told?" he asked.

"Guinevere," Arthur said promptly. Possibly Sir Leon, but then that was asking the knight to hold back information on a criminal, from his king. If he'd _asked_ , Arthur would have told Sir Leon, trusting him to keep it confidential. But also… Morgana. If he hadn't, Gwen surely would have. Two weeks ago, maybe he hadn't been ready to hear what the old man might say about the girl who used to be his friend. Who still would be, had she chosen to remain so. "Facts, only," he said, leaning over the table toward the old man. "Why would Morgana be Merlin's enemy?"

"Morgana's mother had another daughter," Gaius said, a startling tangent. "A few years older than you. She showed signs of magic – I helped smuggle the little girl out of Camelot for her own safety, when the Purge began."

"What does that have to do with Morgana?" Arthur said.

 _You_ _think as he does, then, that all magic-users should die?_ How vehemently Morgana had opposed Uther for Tom's sake, for Mordred's, years ago! When Gwen was accused, she'd come to Arthur for help, with the story of a creature in the cistern fouling the water. And now, she could stand quietly beside Uther and watch Merlin – after risking her life for him and his village – watch him burn, without a single syllable of protest?

Another tangent. "When you and Merlin returned from investigating Idirsholas, everyone was asleep."

Everyone except Morgana.

"Merlin said you'd given her a potion, a cure, before you'd fallen ill yourself," Arthur remembered.

Gaius shook his head. "I never saw her that morning. Gwen came complaining of aches and fatigue – and I felt that, myself – but I gave nothing to Morgana."

"Why did he lie, then?" Arthur said abruptly. "Why did he make up the excuse?"

"I imagine he thought he was protecting her," Gaius said mildly. "There are documented cases of the strongest magic-users able to resist the effects of enchantments like this sleeping spell."

Arthur found himself facing Gaius' book-shelf, and turned to pace the other direction. "But you said Merlin was a strong sorcerer," he said. "And he was getting sick, too."

Gaius made a noise of agreement.

Arthur kept pacing. Who could have betrayed his presence in Ealdor to Cenred? Who could have given information on the patrol? Who could have placed an enchantment on the king before the invasion began – and then raised the very bones of their ancestors to attack Camelot?

"But _why_?" he said to himself, bewildered.

Why did that witch's spell pass her by, out of everyone in Camelot?

He rocked to a stop, the feeling of stone floor faint beneath the soles of his boots, the sight of the physician's quarters vague in his vision. Two memories presented themselves.

The first, Morgana clasped in the arms of the blonde witch, as she loosed the magic – the knights of Medhir falling as the knights of Camelot rose up – the look on Morgause's face. Was not vindictive triumph, for the success of a mission to steal the king's ward. But terrified determination, and overwhelming concern for the woman she held. Almost tenderly.

The other was from a dream now more than two weeks old – Morgana tipping off that helmet and shaking out her hair. Exactly as Morgause had done after issuing a challenge to him according to the knights' code, just before luring him away from Camelot…

 _Morgana's mother had another daughter_. Gaius thought they were… he thought they had a connection. That Morgana would turn traitor against her foster family, her friends – for the sake of a possible blood-bond with a _stranger_?

"It doesn't make sense," he said, frustrated.

"It would seem not to," Gaius agreed reservedly.

"She has no reason to –" _Morgana, shaking her hair from the helm, raising her hand toward them_ – did her eyes flash green fire in hate, or _gold_? "She… she doesn't have…" He couldn't bring himself to say it, but felt his way to the three-legged stool before collapsing. "Does she have…"

"How many times did she warn you, not to do something because she was afraid for you?" Gaius pressed gently.

Just before the final tournament bout with Valiant. Just before his outing with Sophia, one of the last clear memories of those days. Before the hunt for the questing beast, she'd come down the steps of the courtyard barefoot and in her nightgown, to plead with him not to go.

"Her nightmares held visions of the future," Gaius said. "An inactive form of magic. But, among other incidents, enough to make her terrified of discovery."

"Why didn't she say anything to me?" Arthur said aloud. "Why didn't she trust me?" _You will be just like him_ … "But then, why turn on Merlin? If it wasn't because she blamed him for her abduction…"

"If her sympathies lay with the magical community Uther had declared enemy under sentence of death. If she cooperated with Morgause, to bring the knights of Medhir, hunting Uther," Gaius suggested. "If Merlin did what he had to, to defend us all…"

To defend Uther, the man who'd sentenced him to death. To defend Arthur, who hadn't saved him. To defend Camelot, who'd watched his execution.

In his memory's eye, he watched those two doors swing open, saw Morgana pale and unconscious in Morgause's arms – saw Merlin collapsed and stoic barely out of arms' reach… _He killed Morgana as well, evidently_ …

The witch hadn't retreated to torment Uther with her capture of a hostage dear to him. Morgause had traded her chance to kill her enemy, for a chance to save her… ally.

And a year later had released and returned her… within the week, Uther was so ill he couldn't leave his room or hold a coherent conversation. Within the week an army besieged the walls of Camelot, and another arose within those walls… Morgana had not defeated the enemy who'd used magic that night – she was the enemy who had used magic that night. And perhaps, Merlin the reason it failed. That might explain the animosity between them, that neither would discuss.

"What does that have to do with Cenred?" he said aloud. "We defeated his army, yet he keeps sending men against me?"

"My guess," Gaius said, "is that they believe, with Uther removed, Camelot is vulnerable. Perhaps they seek your capture to torment and provoke Uther as happened when Morgana was lost." Arthur remembered, his father had been cold and hard, turning obstinately from all advice to insist upon her rescue at all costs. "With you removed, Uther is vulnerable, and therefore Camelot." He hesitated, gave Arthur an oddly keen, almost wary glance under white eyebrows. "And with Merlin removed, perhaps they consider you now uniquely vulnerable."

Arthur took a deep slow breath, and let it out. If Merlin knew there was a traitor in Camelot – if he knew, and couldn't say – _You don't know Morgana as well as you think you do_ – yes, he could see now why the idiot had refused to leave. But how did his death protect Arthur?

Unless, the illusion of his death protected Merlin, and his unseen presence protected Arthur. He opened his mouth to ask, _Is Merlin alive?_

The door opened with enough vehemence to bang into the wall, startling them both, and Morgana's voice exclaimed, "Gaius!" and then, "Oh, Arthur, you're here, too – good."

He stood from the stool with a sharp retort ready – and swallowed it at the sight of Guinevere. In front of her mistress but only because Morgana was escorting rather than leading, her hair was disheveled and her face drawn and her eyes reddened. She looked terrified to see him.

"No, no," she mumbled, trying to turn away from Morgana, retreat back through the door. "I'm fine, I'm _fine_."

"You're not fine," Morgana told her, and gave Arthur a triumphant glare. "I told you."

Arthur cursed himself. Yesterday morning at breakfast Morgana had been late, and preoccupied, telling Arthur and his father that her maid hadn't come to work. Arthur had been rather preoccupied himself, and rather impatiently assumed Morgana was trying to gauge his level of worry at the mention of Guinevere's absence. Uther hadn't been worried – of course – but had allowed Morgana to send a guard to the lower town to investigate. Arthur hadn't heard more, after that, and had forgotten the incident entirely til now.

"Guinevere!" he said, reaching the two girls faster than Gaius did. And couldn't miss the concern that had brought them to the physician's chamber, as Morgana thrust her maid's hands forward for inspection.

Two inches of flesh around Gwen's wrists was chafed, bruised and scraped. Arthur had seen marks like that before. On prisoners who'd been tied to restrain them.

"Dear girl," Gaius said, emerging from behind his desk. "Come and sit."

"Who did that to you?" Arthur demanded. Guinevere ducked her head, allowing Gaius to lead her to the bench beside his work-table. He turned to Morgana, who looked far happier to be vindicated in her earlier worry, than concerned for her maid's current suffering. "You said she might have been _sick_."

"Well, how should I know?" Morgana snapped. "I was only guessing."

He stared at her for a moment. Hoping to high heaven that it was the truth.

A hiss of discomfort distracted him, and he returned to the bench where Gwen sat, her hands extended so the physician could bathe her wrists in a cloudy-liquid solution. Arthur eased down to sitting at her side, though her knees were tucked under the table, and his remained to the outside of the bench. Leaning on his elbow on the table, he tried unsuccessfully to catch her attention.

"We can't help you if we don't know what happened," he said.

Tears glittered in her eyes, escaped to roll over her cheeks, and he wished they were alone, that he might catch them with his own fingertips. Instead she shrugged them away on the shoulder of her dress – the lavender one that was his favorite.

"I can't tell you," she whispered, darting him a glance from dark eyes. "That's what they _want_ me to do."

"Gwen, you have to tell us," Morgana said commandingly, closing the door to give the four of them privacy; Arthur wondered if he imagined Guinevere's cringe of response.

"Please," he said in a low tone.

She bit her lip and glanced at him again, as Gaius patted the abused area dry and turned to retrieve another bottle from a cabinet against the wall. "Two men," she said, speaking just to him, but in the quiet of the room Morgana and Gaius could hear clearly, also. "They were waiting for me when I got home. I tried to fight, but – there was a cloth that smelled strange, they put it over my face."

Gaius turned with a look of sudden understanding, and sympathy, but said nothing, only began to smear ointment carefully onto her left wrist.

"When I woke, I was in a castle," she continued. "There was a man – a cruel man, with long dark hair and a beard, and two swords he wore crossed over his back."

"Cenred." Arthur closed his eyes briefly, sick to his stomach at the thought of Guinevere at the mercy of that man. She shivered, and Gaius wordlessly unrolled a bandage to begin binding her wrist.

"He has my brother," Gwen said, bowing her head to avoid looking at any of them. "Elyan said, they took him right from his forge even though he fought to get away. They said – they said I had a week, before they would kill him."

"A week for what?" Arthur asked, then had to prompt her again gently, "A week for what, Gwen?"

"To bring you there," she said, and he could see enough of her face to know that her expression crumpled toward involuntary tears again. It twisted his heart – and provoked his temper.

"Where?" Morgana spoke before he could. "Do you know where they were? Where they're holding your brother?"

"It was a great castle, by the sea," Guinevere answered dully. When Gaius tucked the end of the first bandage under, she freed her hand from his grasp to wipe her face and lift her head. "It was _in_ the sea. I looked back when they took me away. Almost like an island, a great rock with the castle on the top. And cliffs by the land's edge."

Arthur shook his head, an image springing to his memory's eye. He'd been to such a place before, years ago when he was young. Old enough to be brought along when his father went to battle, _not_ old enough to be allowed a place in the fighting.

"The Castle of Fyrien," he said. "I'm sure of it." He went on, answering her questioning look as Gaius turned his attention to her other wrist. Storytelling to distract himself also, from examining other implications of the incident, just yet. "Fyrien was a merchant. He built a castle on the sea of Meredor as an outpost for trade routes to the east. But when war broke out with Caerleon, the trade dried up and the castle was abandoned. It was built to withstand anything – for Cenred, it's the perfect hide-out. It isn't an easy place to get into, and it'll be well-defended." Beside him on the bench, her clothing brushed his as she deflated with a sigh of quiet despair.

Morgana demanded, "So what are you going to do?" Arthur acknowledged her with a quick glance, but didn't answer her question, instead turning back to Guinevere.

"Your brother will come to no harm, I promise," Arthur heard himself say. Before he intended to, but he found no inclination to retract.

"How can you be so sure?" She turned her eyes on him – and there was the reason he was sure. He smiled back, trying to instill some of the confidence he felt.

"Because we're going to rescue him."

"Cenred wants you dead," she argued, shaking her head. "That's why he's doing this."

"I know." Arthur pushed himself up from the bench and began to pace in slow, measured steps. "Cenred's wanted Camelot's throne for as long as I can remember." Earlier this year, he very nearly had it – the closest their enemy had ever gotten to defeating them. As Gaius had said, Camelot was vulnerable without Uther, and Uther was vulnerable without Arthur. And Arthur was vulnerable without…

"Then we'll be walking into a trap," Gwen said, glancing at Gaius, and then at Morgana.

Arthur gave them all the cockiest crown-prince, trained-to-kill-since-birth grin he could summon. "Not necessarily. I have a plan." History could simply repeat itself, something he was sure Cenred was not aware of. A flaw in his perfect hide-out.

The one possible flaw in _his_ plan said, "What are you going to tell your father? The truth?"

"If the king knew Cenred was there," Gaius spoke, "he would send half the army."

"But not to rescue Elyan," Guinevere corrected softly, as the physician finished the second bandage.

"I'll tell him you lost a bet to me," Morgana invented. On the spot, it might be. "I'll tell him you owe me something that cannot be obtained in Camelot. Silk enough for a dress – two dresses."

"Let's not get greedy," Arthur said evenly, and she tossed her head.

"That way he won't question it when the two of us come with you," she finished.

Arthur breathed deliberately, to ease the invisible fist that tightened around his heart – and did _not_ look at Gaius. "Very well," he said only. "We'll leave tomorrow at dawn."

"Come, Gwen," Morgana said, "we have preparations to see to." Guinevere rose obediently from the bench.

"Don't get those bandages wet," Gaius told her as she crossed to the door Morgana opened. "Leave them on two days – three if you can – then clean the wounds carefully and they should be fine."

She nodded and gave him a smile. "Thank you, Gaius." Shy glance at Arthur, and then they were gone.

Gaius rounded on him. "Arthur –"

"I know," Arthur said. "I know what you're going to say. You think Morgana passed information on my feelings for Guinevere, and the whereabouts of her brother, to lure me away from Camelot." It wasn't really a question. He found it easier to think, and to say, when she wasn't in the room. Easier to control the impulse to shout out his suspicion and demand explanation – why, why, _why_. If Merlin, who had known them all for three years only, could forgive and protect and stay loyal – why had Morgana chosen their enemy?

 _Tell me I'm wrong. Tell me there's an explanation for all of this… tell me you weren't involved and didn't know a thing when two men,_ strangers _, grabbed Guinevere_. Morgana's maid and best friend for _years_ , someone whose safety and wellbeing she was responsible for, someone she couldn't _possibly_ blame for _anything_ … But. How else could they know where to find Gwen's brother? Or which home in the lower town was hers, even if they had chosen her at random?

"They've made attempts to capture you before now," Gaius said. "Which have come to nothing."

What happened when a hunter sought a quarry too canny – or lucky – to expose itself to a straight shot? A baited trap.

It was effectively done, he could admit that objectively. Guinevere was still emotionally sensitive after Merlin's… loss. It was probably too much for her to bear right now, the thought of possibly losing her brother, even if they were estranged. Arthur didn't think he'd been aware she had a brother - that made him feel like he'd let Gwen down, somehow – but he'd do anything to spare her another loss.

"The question is, how do I keep them from succeeding this time?" he said aloud. "If you're right about Morgana –" the old man quirked a stern eyebrow, but Arthur preferred tangible proof; he was afraid he'd get it, at some point on this venture – "I can't take Guinevere alone with her. Not to face Cenred and his men and maybe Morgause." Not to spring the trap for Morgana to show her treachery openly, and then hope he could still escape with Gwen and her brother to return to Camelot safely.

"That would be foolhardy," Gaius said, and Arthur heard an unspoken, _even for you, sire_. "Might I suggest bringing someone else, to offer additional protection?"

"I can't ask any of our men to lie to the king," Arthur said slowly. Even if there were others like Leon, who would, it wasn't fair to ask it of them.

And then, perhaps Morgana would not be sure enough of success to expose herself. Arthur would be satisfied with rescuing Elyan without bloodshed, but in that case, he'd simply continue watching and waiting for his former friend and almost-sister to make another attempt on his life. And he didn't think he was so good an actor he could keep her from realizing his suspicion, eventually.

"Perhaps someone who is not one of your father's men?" Gaius said. "Someone whom Morgana might underestimate, or discount entirely? Someone you already know and trust?"

Arthur stared at him, finding breathing difficult. The room seemed to rise a bit around him and float – or maybe that was just his heart. He began slowly, "Do you mean…"

The old man pronounced, "Gwaine."

His world dropped back into place with a _thud_ he felt, rather than heard. Disappointment and hope was an odd mix to feel at once, and he laughed – but it was short and had a bitter edge. What did he expect Gaius to say – _Merlin_?

"Gwaine's in Ealdor," he said. "Looking after Merlin's mother. Didn't you know that?"

"Oh, no, sire," Gaius told him, with absolute certainty. "He is far nearer than that."

"But he's been banished from Camelot's territory," Arthur said. "On pain of death."

"They'd have to catch him to carry out that sentence," Gaius said, unperturbed.

Arthur huffed. Yet another lawbreaker the old man was prepared to harbor in secret, even if only by keeping silence on the knowledge. He moved behind Gaius' desk, selecting a clean sheet of parchment, and dipping a quill. "I assume you know how to contact him, then," he said wryly. "How much does he know about the current situation here in Camelot?"

"You mean, before this new development?" Gaius clarified. "He knows who is an ally, and who is not."

And how had Gwaine come to call Camelot's allies, his own? That was an odd sort of loyalty from someone who'd be killed for setting foot on… ah, hells. Of course; because Gwaine had been first _Merlin's_ friend. It was catching, by damn, this suicidal allegiance. But Gwaine had been in Camelot a few days only. Long enough to form ties that close, bonds that tight?

Had the block failed? Was Merlin alive? Once again, he didn't ask. What he felt was a precarious balance between hope and grief - and either one might be dangerous when they were heading into danger and intrigue once again.

"Gaius," Arthur paused, watching the quill-tip carefully so the ink didn't drip on his message, "why is Gwaine _here_?"

"He came because I asked him to," the old physician stated.

Which didn't exactly answer Arthur's question. "And how did you know I was going to need someone like him for a job like this?" Arthur said narrowly.

Gaius shrugged rounded shoulders. "It seemed safe to assume, a situation like this would arise sooner or later."

Arthur sighed, and continued writing.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

 _To a certain common-born warrior, who may or may not have been granted victory in the melee by the writer of this missive, greetings._

 _I am informed by a mutual friend that in defiance of royal order and in the face of my generous intervention on your behalf, you have ventured close enough to the king and court who banished you with enough spirit of daring defiance to serve the need I now find myself facing. Therefore, should you be interested in an opportunity of employment including but not limited to travel and danger, I should offer in return substantial reward, renewed pardon for your offenses, and my thanks. Contingent, of course, upon our success._

 _We travel east at dawn._

"What are you grinning about?" Gwaine startled Merlin from his thoughts, coming around the twisted oak from the opposite direction, moments after Merlin's arrival. "Oh – we've got another message from Gaius? What's happening at court these days?"

Merlin turned, but didn't lift his eyes from the page, or offer it to his companion. "Arthur wrote it."

Gwaine stepped close enough to read it over his shoulder. "Arthur wrote to _you_?"

"Arthur wrote to _you_ ," Merlin corrected, relinquishing the scroll. The sight of the prince's handwriting had put him, for a nostalgic moment, in Arthur's bedchamber at the end of a tiring day, lit perhaps by two candles – one at the desk for Arthur to write by, one at the table while Merlin mended or polished armor. A rare moment of quiet and calm and companionable solitude when the roles of master and servant were discarded by mutual and unspoken consent. "Gaius wrote to me."

 _Cenred holds Gwen's brother at Fyrien Castle. She was given a week to fetch Arthur there – he goes to rescue the captive at Morgana's prompting and in her company._

"What the hell does this all mean?" Gwaine complained, half-serious, shaking his hair out of his face. "Being prince means you can't write a simple, straightforward sentence?"

Merlin grinned and handed him Gaius' addition, which Gwaine read swiftly, and made a noise of enlightenment.

"They're trying for Arthur again," he said. "And Arthur's going to spring the trap. Good, I'm tired of waiting for something to happen. How about you, Merlin? Get that witch and her spy out in the open and finish this."

"Honestly?" He felt more than a little nervous. "The last time I saw Morgause I'd just poisoned her sister. The last time I saw Morgana they were lighting the fire for my execution and she was smiling. I can't say I'm eager to stand in the same room as either one. Cenred, I've never met."

"Can't be as bad as Uther," Gwaine said, re-rolling the scroll and stuffing it in his pocket. "Come on, mate, it'll be fun." He gave Merlin a grin and cuffed his shoulder. "They'll never see you coming."

Merlin huffed a rather wry chuckle. "I have a feeling they're going to realize, I'm not dead after all, before this is over."

"Three cheers and a mug of cider to that," Gwaine said merrily. "Welcome back to the land of the living."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …*…..

Gwaine had been waiting half of an hour, when the trio from Camelot rode into view through the forest heading east from the city toward the sea.

Prince Arthur was in the lead, armed and armored, oozing confidence and on the lookout, it seemed to him, for Gwaine to join them. His gelding, light brown with darker mane and tail – unremarkable coloring, but the conformation spoke unmistakably of speed and stamina, and Gwaine could assume near-perfect training and reliability, for Arthur to bring him on this trip – walked beside the first of two milk-white mares. The better for the prince to be able to hold conversation with his chosen maid, pretty and practical in dark trousers and plain white shirt.

Gwaine sighed, then grinned. His royal highness had more perception than Gwaine generally gave credit to one ranked so high, and not only in horseflesh. Not the princess with curly blonde hair and a kingdom to offer, but this girl. With ordinary beauty and humility, no stranger to hard work – and even a sense of humor.

Did he know how lucky he was? Gwaine hoped so; he'd volunteer to tell Arthur that, any day of the week. He hoped the prince would be a king someday who deserved the love and devotion of a girl like Gwen. A sorcerer like Merlin.

He shifted around the beech tree that hid him temporarily, to study the third rider.

Lady Morgana, on the second white mare. Beautiful, pale, and poised, the both of them; the lady's red lips pressed together as she watched around her almost as warily as Arthur himself. And then glared at the pair ahead of her, thinking herself unobserved. Her wavy black hair was bound tightly in a long braid down her back, and she wore a shimmery silver shirt over dark trousers, silver-glossed girdle around her slender waist.

He wondered for a moment - running his thumb between the bowstring that crossed his chest and the leather vest – if he could possibly get away with simply shooting her out of the saddle. Nah, probably not. Gaius and Merlin might be the only ones who knew what she'd done, what he was capable of, and they wouldn't approve. As far as the rest of the kingdom – and her gentle maid Guinevere - was concerned, she was the king's ward. Gorgeous, loving, and loyal. Banishment would be upped to beheading, if he was ever found out.

And… he relented. Probably his conscious would twinge, also. At least once.

How to play it, though? Dumb as the rest, or wholly onto her? Make her overlook him, or overlook everything else – and Merlin – watching him?

Or… keep her guessing.

They were close enough now, that he could hear them talking. The prince commented, perhaps to explain why he kept looking around them, "I used to be afraid of these woods."

"I find that hard to believe," Gwen said, mild sarcasm.

"My father would bring me here when I was a boy," Arthur added. "It seemed every falling leaf was a bandit, every puff of wind was a ghost."

Every snapped twig was Gwaine escorting them on the flank, before revealing himself.

"You just get used to it in the end," the prince concluded.

"Don't think I'd ever get used to it," Gwen remarked.

"You don't have to," Arthur told her confidently. "You've got me."

Gwaine rolled his eyes to himself – enough was enough. He stepped out from behind the last tree, a stone's easy toss forward and to the side of Gwen's horse, giving a grin and a casual salute to the prince, whose eye caught his movement right away.

"Oh!" the maid exclaimed, a bit more startled – but she recognized him, and in glancing at Arthur, recognized also that Gwaine was expected. Behind them, Morgana's face was a study of narrow concentration. Gwaine grinned and tossed her a salute as well.

"Might I beg your protection also, noble prince," Gwaine teased, "a solitary traveler in these frightening woods."

Arthur grimaced at him. "What I mean is, in the event of an attack, we'll all watch out for each other." Gwaine fell into step beside Gwen's horse, and Arthur added, "Morgana, I think I can rely on your protection."

Gwaine shot him a glance – the tone was right, but there was something about the way his jaw was set – did the prince know, or at least suspect? That would make Gwaine's job easier.

Half a heartbeat later, she answered lightly, "Of course."

"And Gwen," Arthur said – meeting Gwaine's gaze with a superior sort of deliberate levity, "you'll look after Gwaine, won't you?"

She giggled, and gave Gwaine an apologetic glance; he shrugged to show he hadn't taken offense. "Are you coming with us, then?" she asked. "You didn't bring a horse."

He grinned up at her. "I didn't _steal_ a horse," he corrected.

"Are you sure you won't have any trouble keeping up?" Arthur asked with a touch of arrogance, leaning forward so he could see Gwaine past Gwen. "What if a faster pace is necessary?"

"I'll just hop up behind one of the ladies," Gwaine said. "Anyway, I haven't had any trouble keeping up so far."

He wasn't really concerned about the faster pace, or its necessity. He knew who their rear-guard was, and what he was capable of. Gwaine glanced over his shoulder at Morgana – who hurriedly pasted on a look of disinterest. Over her shoulder at the forest behind them – and the cloaked figure just stepped out of sight behind a tree, thirty paces distant. Gwaine sighed to himself and faced forward – it really was too bad his young friend couldn't join them openly.

Arthur was still watching him, a faint frown on his face. "We're not going that fast, this morning," he pointed out. "Or are you referring to other times?"

Gwaine shrugged. "All I'm saying is, don't worry about me. Run if you have to run." _I'll set a fire in the brush, or something_ , he didn't say. Too broad a hint, that, probably.

Gwen glanced at Arthur, clearly uncomfortable with the thought of leaving even such a companion as him, behind to face his fate. Arthur twisted suddenly to look behind, startling Morgana – but he wasn't looking at her, but past her.

Gwaine grinned to himself and whistled a piece of tune as he tramped beside them. This was going to be _fun_.

 **A/N: Some dialogue from ep.3.7 "The Castle of Fyrien."**

 **And, I'm nearly positive next chapter will have Merlin &Arthur!**


	15. Friends and Enemies

**Chapter 15: Friends and Enemies**

"Here. We camp here."

Arthur called a halt for the day about an hour before sundown. His ears had caught the murmur of a gentle brook above the quiet noises their foursome made, traveling; it was the work of a moment to locate it, and a spot of forage for the horses.

Probably they could travel another two hours, but that would bring them that much closer to Fyrien's castle and Cenred's men. He didn't have a good idea of how many enemies to expect other than _we'll be outnumbered_ , but if there were any scouts or patrols on the lookout for the expected party, he didn't want to risk someone getting the idea and the opportunity to attack their camp before they reached the castle.

That, and the second reason he wanted to stop while there was still plenty of daylight.

He and Gwaine shared the duty of caring for the three horses while the girls attended to the comforts of food and bedding for their camp. A hundred times he'd done this sort of thing, and it was good that his hands knew what to do, because he couldn't quit scanning the visible distance to pay more visual attention to the task at hand.

"So," Morgana called conversationally, as they dragged the saddles and the last of the baggage to the small circle of slightly-higher ground chosen for their site. "Do you have a plan, Arthur, for when we get to this castle, to rescue Gwen's brother without getting caught?"

"Of course," Arthur said, courteous in spite of the bitterness he felt. Suspecting, as he couldn't help, exactly why she asked – not to help his plan succeed, but quite the opposite.

"Well, why don't you share it with the rest of us?" she said, a challenge as well as an invitation.

Arthur hesitated.

Gwaine stepped into the pause so smoothly Arthur was reminded what Gaius had said, _He knows who is an ally, and who is not_.

"Arthur doesn't want to give away all his best strategic secrets," he said, "not before an untrustworthy convicted criminal."

"Well, why don't you go away then?" she snapped at him; he shrugged, not taking offense. Gwen paid them little attention; she was understandably distracted, betraying no inclination to sit still but instead found occupation in readying their campsite.

"Time enough for that tomorrow," Arthur said mildly.

Morgana glanced between the two of them. "Fine. I'm going to look for firewood."

As she stepped away, Arthur turned his back on her to speak to Gwaine, who rose immediately from his casual crouch, all levity gone. "Go with her," Arthur said, more request than suggestion. "Keep an eye on her."

"For her safety," Gwaine said, in the same low tone that wouldn't reach Guinevere, "or ours?"

Arthur gave him a keen look, and knew the outlaw understood the situation at least as well as he did. And there was that second reason for stopping early. "Someone's been following us," he said. "All day, I think."

One or maybe two, he guessed. Not a group, like bandits looking for an opportunity or herding them into an existing ambush. A couple of hours after the suspicion had occurred to him, when he was more confident no attack was imminent, he'd turned his attention to his companions.

Gwen was oblivious, unaccustomed to woodcraft and content in any case to trust him with her safety. Morgana was conversely on edge – jumpy and watchfully wary. He thought it possible that she had a contact keeping pace with them – someone she expected, maybe; even if she never saw or heard them, still she might have been alert to the chance. If Gwaine had noticed, Arthur couldn't tell it made a difference to the man's easy-going demeanor.

Now the outlaw nodded as if coming to a decision. "Yeah," he agreed, throwing a glance toward their back-trail as he prepared to follow Morgana, stalking noisily further away from their camp. "He wasn't being careful."

His tone held not evaluation for a potential adversary, but the fond criticism of a familiar. Not Morgana's contact then, but a friend of Gwaine's, maybe another outlaw keeping his distance from the crown prince?

"Someone you know?" Arthur said.

Gwaine grinned. A fleeting expression, yet so _knowing_ it set Arthur's heart thumping with a reaction and emotion he thought he'd left behind him for the trip. Lit with secret delight and humor – hiding and yet revealing some triumph or good news – it was almost the same beaming pride of the expression he'd caught a glimpse of in his mirror late one night, weeks ago.

 _He came because I asked him to… you are not the only one who cares for Merlin… leave the action to others…_

Realization hit him like a blast of hot air – magic overcoming restraint – in the stillness of an underground cell, in the gasp and rush of headlong pursuit through open forest… from the courtyard execution Arthur could not remember. He thought he hated the uncertainty of hope – _just tell me, dammit_. "Someone I know?"

"I won't tell her if you won't," Gwaine said, and Arthur didn't have to ask, who he was talking about.

 _Who would you have told? Your father was not Merlin's only enemy…_ Did the illusion of death protect Merlin that he might continue protecting Arthur?

Gwaine's eyebrows rose, daring grin firmly in place – _what are you going to do about it?_ The outlaw began to jog backwards to follow Morgana. "Say hello for me," he told Arthur, before he turned.

Arthur cleared his throat, keeping his voice even with an effort – calm on the outside, quite the opposite on the inside - and spoke down to Guinevere, beginning to position stones to contain their campfire. "I'll be right back."

She murmured agreement, and he moved away. Leaving their campsite, he headed for the last place he thought he'd caught a glimpse of someone following.

It felt very unreal to him, like he moved calmly through a dream where even the most unlikely made perfect sense. Hope and grief had both deserted him; he felt a sort of contented anticipation.

The ground was open beneath the beech trees that dominated this forest, there was no need to hurry; the lack of underbrush did not hide him, nor did he deliberately attempt to soften his footfalls. There beneath the tree he found an indentation of moss that might have been a human footprint. He lifted his head to scan the ground, to search between the bare grayish tree-trunks, examining those large enough to hide a man. Which direction might their follower have gone, from here?

Was that a flutter of cloth, or the wings of a bird?

Arthur quickened his steps – prowling more deliberately now that twilight was drifting down. A branch snapped in the near distance to his left; he paused to study that direction, before continuing on his current bearing, with more stealth.

Another indistinct flutter, further away.

He halted. This would not do, this hunting tactic. Not if he wanted his friend – the sorcerer – to show himself, to speak to Arthur. To ease the pain of tension in his chest that hope had tightened by imperceptible degrees.

Softly he called, "Merlin?"

Silence.

No wing-flutter, no twig-crack. Not even from a clearly-innocent squirrel or bird or other creature.

The whole forest held its breath.

Arthur tried again. "Please? Gwaine told me…"

He looked all the way around him – he'd come quite a ways out of sight of the camp, or anywhere Gwaine might have let Morgana wander in search of firewood – but there was nothing remarkable.

Until there was.

Twenty paces away, a man in a cloak stood, simply watching Arthur. The hood of the garment was up, effectively obscuring the face, but the edges were behind the shoulders, showing a white tunic tied with a leather belt over dark trousers. In one hand he gripped a leather bag – not heavy but full – by a drawstring cord.

Arthur moved forward immediately, eagerly, but the figure retreated. Not in a straight line, but away to the side, keeping trees between them. Arthur stopped again, where they could see each other; the other stopped as well.

He remembered, faintly but truly, watching a soaring eagle – hawk? – wild and fearless and free. A creature like that would never approach a man voluntarily – and if it did? A privilege to be valued, an opportunity to be awaited with held breath, and careful stillness. He knew he had no right to command obedience from this one.

"Please let me see you?" he said clearly. Very nearly _coaxing_.

Moments passed. The other betrayed indecision, first remaining still, then stepping forward. Hesitantly, as if wary or nervous, and halting entirely more than once. Arthur waited, and felt a strange but satisfying mix of calm and exhilaration.

Five paces away, he lowered his bag, and lifted his hands to the hood of his cloak – the suggestion of a face in shadow cleared, and Arthur looked at Merlin.

Just, looked at him, for a moment. Familiar, and yet different. And Arthur still could not put his finger on what that might be. His realization of Merlin's magic, maybe. Some lingering memory of Aerldan's torture – of Arthur standing inattentive while the pyre caught flame – of five or six weeks worth of living little better than fugitive.

There was no sign of Merlin's goofy grin, and Arthur missed it, even while he was glad – if Merlin had grinned at him, right that very moment, he might have punched the younger man in the teeth.

As it was, Arthur lifted his hands to grip Merlin's upper arms – thin, with wiry rather than muscular strength – felt him, _really there_. And then he shook him. Twice. Hard. Shoving him away and then yanking him back while his face showed shock and maybe apprehension – and the second time, he pulled Merlin all the way in to a hard and sudden embrace the younger man was unprepared for.

"You absolute _ass_ ," he said in Merlin's ear – mostly covered now by the black hair that probably hadn't been cut since he left Camelot. "I thought you were _dead_."

He both heard and felt Merlin's response – a single sound, either chuckle or sob, that trembled through his friend's slender frame, before he released him. Blue eyes, deep and expressive, shone with tears and an expression Arthur might have allowed was happiness. "I'm sorry –"

"No," Arthur said, interrupting. "No, don't you do that. Don't you apologize for a single thing you've done. I understand –" And how long had Merlin been waiting to hear Arthur say that? "Maybe not everything, but enough. Enough to say… thank you."

And then Merlin's wide brilliant smile spread, and Arthur felt nothing but joy to see it.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Morgana, as far as Gwaine could tell, really was gathering dry sticks for the fire, not watching and waiting to speak to a secret contact. He plucked a twig himself and began stripping the bark casually, sauntering out to alert her to his presence.

She looked up negligently, almost immediately dismissing his importance, letting her beautiful face settle into a condescending sneer. "What do _you_ want?"

He grinned. "What does any man really want? Hot bath, hot dinner, hot _cider_ … a girl to enjoy it with…" She snorted and rolled her eyes. "I don't know, maybe an admiring crowd to applaud his stories of exploits and conquests and… _conquests_ … Arthur told me to watch out for you."

It was an innocuous comment, not a warning, but she straightened, her gaze sharper. "I don't need _your_ protection," she said caustically.

"That, I'll believe." He bent to retrieve a likely branch near his feet, leaving one end on the ground and placing his boot-heel in the center to snap it to more manageable lengths.

"You don't seem the sort to take orders from the likes of Arthur." Her disdain edged into rudeness, but he supposed it could be taken as all for him, and none for Arthur. If he didn't know what he already knew, about the lady. And that blade probably cut both ways anyway – that Arthur was unlikely to listen to the likes of _him_ , either.

"Normally, you'd be right," he told her. "But Arthur… the man clearly cares about his friends. And I don't care who you are, you have to respect that."

Another sharp glance. "Arthur's friends," she said contemptuously. "You mean, like you?"

He shrugged. "Like Merlin." Over another feminine sound of derision, he added, "Like Gwen. Like _you_ … once."

Her lip curled. "What are you saying? That I am not Arthur's friend anymore?"

Gwaine let his grin drop completely. Deadly serious. "Are you not. Friends don't betray each other into greater danger, they help and protect."

She laughed mockingly. "Whatever you may think you know, I haven't betrayed my friends. I am helping, and protecting." Bundle of firewood in one arm, single stick in the other hand, she gestured expansively. "Here I am in the middle of nowhere, risking my life for my friends."

"Yes," he said. "Yes, you are. But the question is, which ones?" He bent to pick up another slender branch.

"What do you mean, which –"

He interrupted her blustering. "Arthur, would not have sent you to the court of a king you had declared your enemy. He would not have had you risk your safety or your life passing information. He would have cared for _you_ , above any advantage your willingness to face danger might have given him – don't you think you might have chosen the wrong friends, after all?"

"What are you talking about?" she snapped, but at least, he saw, he'd shaken a bit of confidence out of her.

"I am no stranger to the hatred of a king." He stopped to consider. "More than one, come to think of it; your Uther qualifies lately. Obviously, I know what it feels like to live – even temporarily – in a kingdom that would see you dead if you're discovered."

"Why don't you just leave, then," she said, pale with suppressed and maybe fear-fueled temper.

"Why don't you?" he shot back. "Hells, m'lady, I was years younger than you when I left the place what was left of my family called home. Two steps ahead of the king's soldiers and some men I had thought to call friends, seeking my life. I could've gone back to find my revenge, but – the world is wide, and so are our choices. We find new friends – new family even it may be – a better reason for living than vengeance."

"What a charming story," she said furiously.

He sighed, and gave up. "Well, you can't say I didn't try."

She stalked to him and flung her armful of firewood down on top of his boots, before storming back toward the camp. "Try minding your own business."

Gwaine looked down at the dry wood a moment, before squatting to gather it up. Wondering if he might have made the situation worse. If that were possible… if he cared.

Hefting the balance of the bundle, he began whistling again, sauntering back to camp in her wake. He hadn't made a living the last ten years by minding his own business.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"You're not angry?" Merlin said, searching Arthur's face and finding differences; he was familiar with all the prince's expressions and hadn't been quite sure which to expect directed at him. Though honestly, he hadn't expected to stand face to face with Arthur so soon; Gwaine must have been sure of Arthur's discretion or he wouldn't have said – whatever he said to make the prince guess the truth.

There was a faint weariness to Arthur's bearing, concern buried deep behind the habitual faint arrogance. A smile tried to pull Arthur's lips sideways; he resisted it.

"I'm _furious_ ," he corrected Merlin softly. "I thought I lost you."

"But –" he had to press further – "you don't hate me?"

Arthur gave him a reproachful look. "No, I don't." Merlin filled his lungs and exhaled; hearing Gaius' opinion of the prince's state of mind was one thing, but he couldn't quite help fearing that there were less tangible consequences yet to be faced. "That matters to you quite a lot."

"Well, I…" Merlin shrugged, trying to explain how he felt, when neither of them were in the habit of doing so, at least to each other. "I thought… I might have lost you."

Arthur snorted, but the expression of his eyes was sympathetic. "What happened, then? How did you escape?"

Merlin lifted his eyebrows, and the sides of his own mouth in a smile, hopeful of avoiding giving offense. "Magic?"

Arthur made a fist and pushed Merlin's shoulder in place of a verbal threat – which actually served to relax Merlin a bit. He'd worried that the revelation of this secret – the magic, and the perceived execution – would change things irrevocably between them, destroy the prince's trust in him. That even if he forgave Merlin's lies and secrecy, even if he admitted the neutral nature of magic and accepted Merlin's motivation, he would still be held at arms' length. Treated like any other servant – physically close perhaps, but emotionally distant – even like one of the guards or knights, a resource in human form for Arthur to use dispassionately however he saw fit. Perhaps – depending on what Gaius had told him – like a foreign lord or envoy, given respect because of the possible repercussions if he was offended.

"You can do better than that," Arthur said. "Gaius told me, he believed you could overcome that block?"

"Yes," Merlin said, before noticing Arthur's sidelong glance at the front of his shirt. He lifted his hand to rub at the fading marks of the containment rune self-consciously. "Morgana – oh. You – know about her, now?"

Arthur's jaw tightened. "Gaius told me a bit. About the reason for her shift in loyalty."

"She came down to the cells, just before – before they brought me out? I thought, I would never be able to – do anything useful, if your father had the knights tracking me, and Morgause knew I had magic and I escaped and… I'm sorry. I think I had Gaius worried for a while, too."

Arthur huffed, shaking his head. "That old man is _crafty_ ," he said, and Merlin couldn't help smiling – but froze when the prince rounded on him, eyes narrowed. "There was one morning I came to talk to him, and he was in your room, and he said – you were there, weren't you? Right there."

"No, I left when we heard you –" Merlin shrugged at another narrowed glance and explained, "Magic?"

The prince grunted. "Merlin, that day… did Gaius tell you, he'd given me something? I wasn't just… ignoring you while they were getting ready to…"

"He told me," Merlin said softly.

"Leon said, you wanted me to look at you – I swear I never heard you." Arthur put a hand on Merlin's shoulder, turning him slightly so they faced each other directly. "I see you now. I want to tell you – hells, I thought I'd missed my chance – my father is wrong. About what magic is. What it's not. I doubt there's much I can do about it _now_ , but someday…"  
Merlin blinked hard, even though his smile was so wide it hurt. "Thank you. And I'm glad – I wished so many times I could tell you."

"Well." Arthur cleared his throat, and lifted a warning eyebrow. "Now you better, you hear me?"

"Yes, my lord," Merlin said, very nearly completely happy. Except for – "I really am sorry," he added, "about Morgana."

The prince shifted, lifting his head to gaze in the direction they'd taken, earlier when Merlin was following. "You're not going to join us in camp, are you?" he said. He moved to begin walking, returning slowly to join his traveling companions.

"I can't," Merlin said softly, following. He wished he could; he'd shared such times with Arthur before – and Gwaine more recently. It was a much better prospect than lingering alone on the outside edge, as he'd have to do, tonight. "She can't know – they can't know."

He glanced to be sure Arthur understood, and the prince nodded without looking up from watching the ground where he placed his feet. Of course Arthur would understand the advantage to having a hidden weapon – even if it was magic – but Merlin was relieved all the same.

"I will join you in the castle, though," he added. "Even if you don't see me, I'll be there."

Arthur opened his mouth – then shut it. Then sighed. "It's terrible," he said lightly. "My instinct is still to laugh at a clumsy servant who thinks he can protect a champion of tournaments."

Merlin decided not to tell him, how many of those tournaments had been won with the help of magic. "Trained to kill since birth," he added in the same mock-arrogant tone the prince had used, and Arthur shoved him. "Don't worry about it. Gwaine says the magic is surprisingly easy to get used to."

"Gwaine." Arthur looked up again, but his companions weren't in sight yet; Merlin was keeping an eye out, too. "When did you tell him?"

"I didn't." One blonde eyebrow rose incredulously. "I mean, the spell I used to transport myself out of the fire was evidently a dead giveaway." Merlin saw Arthur wince at the term, but pretended he hadn't noticed. "Gaius found him, asked him to meet me, after. I think he was supposed to make sure I left Camelot, safely."

"And instead, what?" Arthur said. "You two decided to stay in case I needed help?" Only a faint cynical arrogance sounded in his tone.

"You have enemies, Arthur," Merlin said quietly. "They weren't going to leave you alone. And Camelot – has something of a blind spot, when it comes to threats of a magical nature." Arthur stopped and studied Merlin in a way that made him feel self-conscious. "What?"

"That something about you, Merlin," he said. "It's more than magic. I still can't put my finger on it."

"Camelot is a good kingdom," Merlin said. "It's going to be even better. And you're going to be a great king. I just – want to help that happen."

It seemed to him quite a simple explanation, an easy concept, but Arthur shook his head as if comprehension still eluded him. "Tomorrow morning," he said, "when we enter the castle of Fyrien. It backs onto the sea – we're vastly outnumbered and Cenred's lookouts will spot us well before we've reached the gates. Unless I want to surrender myself in fact and hope he releases Gwen's brother in return, we can't go that way."

"There's another way?" Merlin guessed.

Arthur allowed a smile that held the particular arrogance that was _confidence_. "Yes, there is. When Caerleon was defeated by my father at the Battle of Denaria, he retreated to the castle of Fyrien and it seemed a victory would be denied us, but my father knew of a secret labyrinth beneath the castle."

"A labyrinth." Merlin could see problems with this, already.

"Fyrien was a merchant, and a greedy one at that. To avoid Camelot's levies, he dug tunnels from the castle to the sea. That way, he could smuggle goods into the kingdom without anyone knowing. We ambushed Caerleon using those old tunnels; he never saw us coming."

"And neither will Cenred," Merlin said, as much a determination to make it so, as a guess of Arthur's intentions. "Um, though – labyrinth?"

Arthur's smile was lopsided, but there. "Don't tell me, you're going to have trouble keeping up?"

"Keeping up, or keeping hidden, one or the other," Merlin retorted. "Maybe Gwaine could mark your trail? That way I won't lose you, and you won't lose me."

"Promise?" Arthur said lightly, but there was a note of truth buried in the teasing tone. He sighed again. "I should be getting back. Morgana might get suspicious."

He hated to ask, but… he had to ask. "What are you going to do about her?"

Arthur lifted his hand to rub at his forehead, just between his eyebrows. "If she's willing to put Gwen in danger, to get at me – I don't like the idea of her in Camelot. She could walk right in to my father's room in the middle of the night… But, if we come back from here without her, it'll be last year all over again."

Merlin didn't say anything. He had made decisions where Morgana was concerned before, and in his moments of darkest doubt wondered if he bore some responsibility for how things turned out. At the very least, he could have made different decisions… now, though, in spite of the fact that he'd like very much to turn that responsibility over to someone arguably more qualified than he, he rather thought Arthur had the right to this decision.

"But if Guinevere is worried enough to ask where I've been, just now," Arthur added, shifting his weight to walk away, "I hate to lie to her."

This time, Merlin cringed. A moment of silence passed, in which Arthur did not leave him standing alone. He ventured, "Should I have told you?"

Arthur didn't ask him to clarify. About Morgana, about magic, about surviving his execution. He didn't bluster about the relationships of masters and servants, the obligations of peasants to princes – he did, however, think seriously about his answer.

"No," he said. "Even if I felt an idiot and a fool –" Merlin began to protest, and Arthur raised a preemptory finger to silence him – "I understand there were reasons for your secrets. Good reasons, and I respect that. And _you_ … you never wished me harm."

Merlin knew his friend was still thinking of the lady who accompanied him, perpetuating deceit with the intention of doing him considerable harm. He spoke in jest, then, trying to lighten Arthur's spirits, "Well, that first week – um, maybe the first month – well, call it a –"

"Shut up, Merlin," Arthur warned. But the glint of humor Merlin had intended to provoke was there. "In any case, we both survived each other this long. And tomorrow–"

"Look what we've got," Merlin said. "You and me."

"My steel and your magic," Arthur remarked sardonically. "My brains and your – oh, wait, no, the brawn is mine as well."

"Which means the brains are mine," Merlin said.

Arthur gave his arm a light whack, beginning to move off through the trees. "Not a chance. I better not see you tomorrow."

Sarcasm was appropriate for his tone. " _Yes_ , my lord." Not unless there was no other choice.

Merlin slung his pack over his shoulder, watching his prince lope away. He'd have to remember to thank Gaius, when they got back to Camelot. Evidently he'd succeeded in death what he'd aspired to in life – and in no small part due to that crafty old man.

And he was so proud of Arthur.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin was alive. And well, evidently.

Arthur wasn't fool enough to think that made everything right with the world – there was the problem of Morgana, and Guinevere's brother, to deal with in the immediate future. And when they returned home – because surely _now_ they couldn't fail in their mission – he wouldn't be naïve enough this time to believe his father would have a change of mind or heart, to allow Merlin to come out of hiding, back from the dead, and have any place in Camelot.

But. He couldn't deny that knowing his ridiculously loyal servant, his powerful and strangely modest sorcerer – was alive and near and ready, made everything feel right with Arthur.

He laid on his back and watched the dying coals of their cook-fire gleam on the undersides of the beech leaves, remembering how he'd done so five weeks ago, waiting for Leon's watch and the other knights to fall asleep, so he could cut that cord that bound Merlin and set him free.

Tonight, he felt like the one set free.

Five weeks ago, he'd told Merlin, don't do magic again; didn't you know it corrupts your soul? And now, the thought of Merlin's magic at his back as he contemplated bearding an old enemy in his den gave him confidence. Magic wasn't good, it wasn't bad, it just was. But Merlin – Merlin was good. He was surer of Merlin's motivations than his own, at times.

He deeply regretted the suffering that had brought them both to this point, but. Merlin seemed to hold none of it against him, seemed willing to – well, to do whatever Arthur asked of him, whatever needed to be done. He hadn't changed; he was still the same person, only _more_. Even though their association had changed, their relationship hadn't, Arthur believed. And wondered if he dared hope that it, too, could be _more_.

And if so, would the suffering then be worth it. The benefits not limited to the two of them, but expanded ever outward to the kingdom…

Arthur was asleep before he realized it, because he woke a bit abruptly to a stifled sound. He tensed and waited for a repetition; it had been enough out of place to pull him from sleep.

A gasp of breath both quick and quiet. And a sniffle.

He sat up from his bedding – caught Gwaine's eye as the other man rolled to check the sound also. But it was Guinevere's body that trembled with suppressed weeping; Gwaine settled and closed his eyes again – figuring that Arthur would handle it? Guessing, maybe, that he preferred to handle it?

Before this venture was over, Arthur groused to himself a bit, the whole five kingdoms would know, the prince of Camelot fancied a maid. Not that he was embarrassed at all – but matters of the heart were supposed to be _private_. Rising, he padded around Guinevere and knelt, touching her uppermost shoulder lightly.

She'd been concentrating so fully on staying quiet she hadn't noticed him move; her eyes flew open and she gasped, covering her mouth. He smiled at her reassuringly, and she calmed, glancing over her shoulder at the other two, before pushing herself up to a reclining position on one hip.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I was too loud?"

He lowered himself to sitting cross-legged beside the fur she slept on to protect herself from the ground. "No, I just wanted to check you were all right." He ventured a guess, "You must be worried about Elyan."

She wiped her face with the back of her hand, managing to make the gesture dainty. "I'm always worried about Elyan," she said. "He's just one of those people. Never settled down, never thinks about the future. Just follows his heart wherever it leads him."

Arthur couldn't help smiling. "Doesn't sound so bad," he hinted.

"Well, it wouldn't be." Her voice held more fond exasperation than tearful despair; he counted that a victory already. "Except he always manages to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"To be fair," Arthur pointed out, "I don't think it was his fault this time."

Silence, and it was suddenly awkward. Because Arthur guessed that one of their companions – Guinevere's mistress, and someone who ought to have comforted and protected her, rather than using the intimacy and confidence of innocently-offered trust and friendship – was partly to blame, also.

"I thought –" She hesitated; the light wasn't good but he could see that she'd set her jaw to confide in him, a privilege that warmed him, every time she did it. "I thought, maybe, it would be like when we went to Ealdor. Remember? Even though we expected danger, it was kind of nice to be close, and together."

He knew what she meant. Barriers seemed to break down, status didn't matter – they could be friends, on the road. All four of them.

"But Merlin is gone. Gwaine's nice, but… _She's_ been so different." Guinevere's voice dropped still further, the barest breath of a whisper. "Since she's been back. She didn't used to be impatient with me. She didn't have to _try_ to be polite or friendly, and now. Maybe you think I'm being a silly girl, but she's _changed_ , Arthur. When Elena was here, she told me… you couldn't marry me. I mean, basically. That I couldn't hope for anything, no matter how – you felt, or I felt, or…"

Daring, he reached out to put his hand on hers. He knew as well as she did, the way things were. He knew as well as she did, how they felt – and he hadn't given up hope that someday, somehow… They were young, yet. He hadn't asked her to wait, and if she changed her mind he wouldn't fault her, but he didn't feel ready to marry anyone, approved or not; he rather thought she felt the same way. She hesitated more often than she encouraged.

"Arthur," she said, less emotional but just as quiet, "I can't think of anyone else who knew that you – might care about _me_ more than another maid. Who knew I had a brother, or where I sent him letters, sometimes. I didn't say anything because I wasn't sure, and – _oh_ , I want to be wrong about her, but I'm afraid… And tomorrow, it'll be even _more_ dangerous. Arthur, if anything happens to you, I won't forgive myself."

"Don't worry," he said, reaching his other hand to smooth a wayward curl that caught the light. "It won't."

"How can you be _sure_?" she whispered, a near-soundless plea that had all the power of a stentorian command upon his heart.

"Because you're right, and you're wrong." She pulled her legs further underneath of her to sit more upright, and lean closer. "About Morgana. I noticed. Gaius noticed. Guinevere, we – we lost our friend, a year ago. She didn't come back, not really." She covered her mouth with her hand, and tears glittered on her cheeks once again, but she nodded, accepting his statement of her suspicion.

"I won't say any more about that, not tonight, but… you were wrong about another friend you thought you lost."

For a moment she didn't react. Then, he thought, it was good she already had her mouth covered with her hand when she gasped.

"Don't say it," he hissed in caution. "I can't explain more, here and now, but… you can be cheered and heartened to know that – it isn't just the four of us, facing tomorrow. That is how I can be sure, nothing will happen to us."

She nodded slowly again, let her hand drop slowly. "He won't let it," she said. "Oh, Arthur – you've seen him?" His nod was interrupted as she sat forward suddenly to curl her arm around his neck.

"Don't cry," he said, as she trembled in the crook of his arm, and breathed to chide them both, "Guinevere… I came to comfort you, not to make you cry more." She sniffed and huffed a chuckle against him, then sat back, and he cold see her smile and shining eyes, radiant even in low coal-glow. "It has to be a secret, still," he warned her. "But tomorrow – I didn't want it to be too much of a shock, either, if you –"

"If I see him," she finished. "Arthur, I've missed him, too. If we can rescue Elyan and all get back to Camelot safely, maybe we can even persuade Morgana…"

He couldn't bear to contradict her. Not when he felt the same pang of why-not in reaction to the suggestion. Maybe he wouldn't be able to trust her, if she admitted her treachery but claimed a change of heart, back to them. Maybe he'd struggle with how much to tell anyone else, what penalties might be justly earned by what she'd done so far, but – ye gods, at least a chance.

"Get some sleep now," he whispered. "No more tears?"

He heard the smile in her whisper, as she prepared to lay herself down again. "No more tears."

 **A/N: Some dialogue from ep.3.7 "The Castle of Fyrien."**

 **So the reunion was a long time coming – it was satisfactory though, right? I got Gwen in the loop too, a bit of Arwen… and next chapter, on to Fyrien!**


	16. Through the Labyrinth

**Chapter 16: Through the Labyrinth**

The castle of Fyrien was not built, Gwaine found out early the next morning, beside the sea of Meredor – but out in it. Perhaps the great rock surrounded by water except for a narrow causeway had once been part of the sheer cliffs that lined the shore, the same unyielding white-gray limestone as the castle's base.

As they crept closer on the narrow shelf of a shore, the castle coming into view around the curve of the cliffs, Gwaine tried to imagine the triumph of engineering and the back-breaking labor involved in building such an imposing structure around the very quarry which supplied the materials. He spared a grimace for the thought as Arthur in the lead knelt behind a fallen boulder and lifted a fist to signal a halt – Gwaine much preferred working with weapons, to tools.

Between him and Arthur were the two girls – a positioning that was safest for all of them, no matter which side they'd chosen.

It was easy to guess, from their interaction this morning, which was maid and which was mistress, but he'd call any man a liar who claimed them to be friends, from their behavior. Whatever Arthur – who'd hidden the truth of what he'd found on their back-trail surprisingly well, except for periods of brown study followed by in explicable self-depreciating snorts – had told Gwen, she looked happier than a simple reassurance of her brother's imminent rescue warranted.

At least, Gwaine told himself, neither of them was given to suspiciously repetitive backward glances.

Morgana, on the other hand, was short-tempered, as if she anticipated reaching the end of the need for her to maintain a façade – which would be, once Arthur was inside the fortress and surrounded by Cenred's men. Confronting her now would complicate things unnecessarily; they couldn't exactly leave her at the campsite in restraints – even magical ones, if Merlin wanted to betray his presence to her – and asking Gwen to stand guard wasn't fair or wise. Though he'd have volunteered to enter the castle alone, he didn't know his way through the labyrinth, and no one wanted Arthur to go alone.

They just had to be alert to the moment she decided to dispense with appearances and stand against them. For the moment, her attempts to appear eager and focused were flimsy, but the apprehension was sincere enough.

Seeing the attention of the other three toward the castle standing out from the shore of the sea, Gwaine risked a backward glance of his own. He didn't see Merlin, but he resisted an impulse to grin and salute, anyway – because he was sure the sorcerer was watching _them_.

"Here we are," Arthur spoke over his shoulder, moving back to the cliff-side and rounding an outcropping. "Stay close."

Gwaine followed to see that a cleft twisted further back than first glance betrayed. He met the prince's eyes between the two girls, and nodded his understanding of the underlying meaning of the caution.

There was nothing on the shoreline to reveal the entrance of the labyrinth of caves and passages, but once inside, evidence abounded of the battle Arthur had spoken of briefly that morning, in advising Gwaine of the need to mark their trail. Ostensibly in case they had to escape without benefit of Arthur's knowledge – in case of his capture, or unconsciousness, though he didn't say it like that – but Gwaine figured it was also so a certain sorcerer could follow them _in_.

"We reclaimed our dead, when the battle was over," Arthur said quietly, finding and lighting two torches, handing one to Gwaine – the brief halt also gave the girls a chance to accustom themselves to the rather grisly relics populating the passageway. "Looks like Caerleon didn't bother taking care of his fallen."

"Not surprising," Gwaine muttered.

He gazed down to one side, where a pair of skeletons had fallen together. The bones were kept together by cobwebs, rather than flesh; clothing, armor, weaponry all rotted more slowly.

For the first time, it occurred to him that he might have a destiny, after all. That the fates intended more for him than he'd intended for himself.

He'd resented his father – in a youthful reversal of the great love he'd borne for his parent in the early years – for dying. He'd hated his king for ignoring his family's service, denying his mother's petition, so long. He'd left home young, with little more than determination and his father's sword – almost unconsciously he gripped the hilt at his hip – with a vague resolve to win such fame and glory, Caerleon would regret denying him his chance. But. If his father had lived, or if the king had honored their mutual pledge, Gwaine would have become one of his young fighters. He would have faced Camelot at Denaria – and, surviving that, might have fallen here. To be no more than another jumble of bones, silently watching, idiotically grinning as this prince – and the maid he loved, and the lady-traitor, and soon the peasant-sorcerer – passed him by without a second glance.

"Gwaine?" Guinevere's hiss roused him. She stood at the turning point of the tunnel ahead, looking back as Arthur's torchlight flickered past the bend. "Where's Morgana?"

Damn. He swallowed another expletive, twisting to look back toward the mouth of the labyrinth – fine watchman he was, romancing like a girl about destiny and fate.

"I'm here." The lady came stepping up the passage, watching her feet rather than either of them, braid swinging over her shoulder.

He let her pass without speaking, and couldn't tell from her expression if her momentary loitering behind and unseen was anything but happenstance. But then he couldn't help goading, "Stick together, my lady, we need to keep moving."

She ignored him, but nothing more roused his suspicion.

Gwaine brought up the rear as they passed through the warren of caves and tunnels, at every juncture placing a fresh green beech leaf from the handful he carried in his pocket. Casually, but he hoped Morgana would not notice, he marked the route for an inward trail, not outward. For their follower, not for their escape without Arthur.

They traveled downward slopes first, before turning toward the castle - under the water that dripped and trickled and pooled – upward through the rock-base of their objective. Gwaine watched the two girls for any inclination – or opportunity – to express nerves in an involuntary or betraying scream – but neglected to clear a hanging curtain of cobweb they'd passed under safely. He sputtered at the cold dusty brush against his face, and in the almost-silence, it caught the attention of his companions.

"Stop worrying about your hair," Arthur said.

Gwaine couldn't tell if Arthur was joking for the sake of hiding anxiety over the situation, over Morgana, or if he was high-spirited for learning of Merlin's continued life but restraining himself. He ran the fingers of his off-hand through his hair. "Very funny."

"It's a good sign," the prince continued, glancing at the girls before turning forward again. "Means no one's been down here."

Gwen turned to Arthur's left to help clear their way – Gwaine saw what would happen a moment before she did. Another fleshless skeleton balanced precariously, caught in the webbing – it leered forward in a clatter of dry bones as she parted the spider-veil, and he leaped forward to clap a hand around her mouth.

Surprise stifled, she leaned weakly back against him for a moment before removing his hand to signal that she was grateful for his intervention, but was fine now, thank you. Ahead, Arthur turned around with his torch to glare at Gwaine – who grinned back, unperturbed by the prince's annoyance. Wouldn't do him a bit of harm to think a prince like him, used to getting whatever he wanted, might have competition for Gwen's favor.

It was a labyrinth though, and Gwaine left off considering the degree of privilege Arthur might be accustomed to, to admire – however reluctantly – the other man's memory for strategy and advantage. Even years later, Arthur showed no more than momentary hesitation, choosing their way.

He glanced backward again. Still, not seeing Merlin, but he shouldn't have any problem following the trail of beech-leaves he'd left through the warren of tunnels and chambers. Morgana glanced back also; he grinned and she bridled, turning her back on him with a flounce. No indication that anyone else was catching up with them, either.

Finally they fetched up against a solid wall; Arthur handed his torch to Gwen to manhandle a barrel of some long-forgotten siege-supply into place below a two-foot square trapdoor. Gwaine laid his bow and quiver carefully to one side, tracing his finger almost absently through the dust on the ground – their packs had been left safe in the forest with the horses, but he'd take only his sword up into the castle.

"What if something's on it, like furniture?" he whispered as Arthur tested the barrel before trusting his weight to it.

"It opens to the dungeon level," Arthur said.

Gwaine wondered why a merchant would have a dungeon. Maybe he was more of a pirate. "What if the cell-door's locked?"

Arthur gave him a glare. "It's in a corridor." And added, forestalling Gwaine's next question, "In a corner, so no one will be walking over it."

He had to duck, standing on the barrel – easing the trapdoor upward an inch or two. They all froze, waiting for him to signal all-clear; Gwaine itched to step close to Morgana and muzzle her with his hand, sure she was going to give them away at the first opportunity. Arthur lowered the door again – slowly, silently, carefully – and held out his hand to Gwen; she tucked the torch into an empty cobwebby sconce on the wall of the cave. Gwaine did the same on his side of the tunnel.

"No one in sight," Arthur said, helping the maid scramble up to join him on top of the barrel. "But there are two ways to go." He shoved his hand out, in front and then to one side, for the benefit of Gwaine being able to visualize the layout above. "I'll go one way with Morgana – you go the other with Gwen. We find Elyan, we bring him back here, and wait. We don't, we return here in an hour, regardless. If one pair is here, and the other isn't –" Arthur grinned. "Send the cavalry."

It sounded like a joke. Gwaine heard, _Send Merlin_.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin yawned, and it distracted him enough that he tripped on the broken stone that formed the narrow shore between cliff-side and sea.

It was all right; the four he followed were no longer in sight. But just to be sure, he skirted more closely to the cliff than the water, especially after the fortress was visible.

He hadn't gotten much sleep last night. After waking from the same annoyingly-recurrent nightmare he'd had since escaping Camelot – the one where Arthur was on the burning pyre and Merlin couldn't move to save him – he'd circled his friends' camp in the dark, waiting for his heart-rate to slow so sleep would be possible once again.

And so had discovered, he and Arthur were not the only pair who had reunited.

Though he didn't dare venture close enough to hear what was being said, still the two sisters – he still thought incredulously of the relationship; they didn't look anything alike, to his mind – were clearly identifiable. They spoke for a short time – low but intense – and embraced twice. And, if Merlin was not mistaken, an object had changed hands.

He'd be a fool to think it a mere gift from a fond sister. He doubted, though, that it posed an immediate threat to his prince – if that was what Morgause had intended, if Morgana had been amenable to taking a more active role – it could have been done in Camelot, without this subterfuge.

No, he rather thought Arthur might be given to Cenred, once he'd been captured. The enemy king had _almost_ conquered Camelot, and that had to rankle. He figured Cenred would want every last scrap of military information he could wring out of Arthur, which meant, they'd be careful to take him alive. So Merlin supposed, Morgause had given her sister an enchanted token of some kind, to alert those waiting in the fortress to Arthur's position, in some way. They wouldn't have any problem getting into Fyrien's castle – maybe not even locating and rescuing Gwen's brother. But Arthur would probably not be able to walk out again – or run, whatever – without Merlin's help.

Easing around a hefty vertical wrinkle in the rock of the cliff, Merlin watched Arthur disappear into a fissure, followed by the two girls, then Gwaine. Having no idea what they were walking into, Merlin waited before following – shifted his foot to step out – and froze.

Morgana had reappeared. Looking toward the castle – and away from him – her every movement furtive and hurried. She made an odd gesture, a bit like wringing her hands, then bent to touch one of the fallen rocks, before sending another glance castle-ward, and disappearing once again.

A moment later, smoke spiraled up from the rock.

Merlin sprinted forward, heedless of the rocky, uneven ground; the smoke sparked orange, not dissipating in the seaside breeze but forming a cloud.

A beacon. Probably for a waiting patrol.  
The orange sparked to blood-red as he reached the rock and snatched at the object. Expecting the burning heat of a live flame, he flinched, but felt only cool metal – a ring, his fingers told him, the face wide and set with stones. He flung it with all his might into the sea; his hand had quenched the smoke so there was no trail, only a faint yellowish residue on his palm like he'd grasped a dandelion.

" _Cume thoden_." He called the wind to scatter the smoke and erase the lingering magic.

The whirlwind picked up sand and flecks of stone, but he crouched a moment more, squinting and waiting. The air stilled once again, but he heard nothing from the shore, the forest above the cliffs, the labyrinth beneath.

Turning then, he entered the fissure, prowling forward warily into the darkness. He didn't dare light a torch for himself – but close enough to see by the light carried by those he followed was close enough to alert them if he stumbled over the bones or rusty weapons or discarded supply containers.

He had a bit of time, he thought. Morgana would probably assume her magic effective, and wait, before realizing the mistake and trying something else. It near killed him to do it, but he waited, too.

Until his straining ears caught no whisper of an echo of voice-murmur or boot-shuffle. Til his heartbeat and the drip of moisture was all he heard, and the blackness around him was complete.

" _Forbearnan_ ," he whispered. And was pleased when the flame jumped into existence without hesitation, and his hand did not so much as tremble. Since his near-death by burning, he'd had a bit more trouble with fire spells than was normal for him. Barely more than a candle-flame hovering over the palm of his hand, still it was sufficient to increase the range of vision to three paces ahead. Enough to see the leaf on the floor of the left-hand passage.

Merlin grinned to himself and hurried forward.

Labyrinth was right. And, he was glad there wasn't a second rowan staff to bring these bones to life and action and enmity.

Twice he stopped to let the magic and the flame die, to be sure he wasn't coming up on his friends – three friends, and one not anymore – too quickly. But when he reached the torchlit end of the passage – blank stone wall, barrel, trapdoor in the cave-ceiling – they were gone.

His attention was caught by a bow and quiver to one side – bright and new, not covered in layers of spiderweb - and then he saw that someone had written in the dirt on the floor. The letter _A_ , and an arrow. Briefly he knelt and made four marks, just below the letter.

Then Merlin removed his cloak and laid it carefully over one edge of a smashed crate near the trapdoor, and flexed his fingers, testing. Six weeks meant mostly healed, and he didn't use bandages anymore; yes, he figured he could do what needed done. Lifting himself to the top of the barrel, he inched the trapdoor open.

There were indeed to options for direction – both deserted. And Arthur had evidently taken the corridor on the left.

Merlin squirmed out from under the trapdoor - heavy, as it was topped with the stone of the corridor-floor to blend in with it – and lowered it carefully back into place. Even with the dust disturbed from his companions' passage and then his own, it was hard to tell it was there.

Which meant, it was likely still a secret from Cenred.

He knelt on the floor, listening. No shouts of alarm, no running feet, no clashing weapons. Dim torchlight flickered in the gloom from wall-sconces further down.

Merlin headed left.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"Recognize anything?" Gwaine whispered to Gwen, leaning one eye around the corner.

"I never was down here," she whispered back. "Only a little receiving chamber, near the main entrance and on the same level."

He nodded, easing back. There was one guard at the other end of the adjacent hall, seated lazily on a backless stool, legs outstretched. Keys on his belt.

The problem was, another hall or stairway was out of sight beyond him, and there could be more fighters - or anyone, really; he wasn't about to forget the witch who waited here. The halls weren't wide enough for more than two to come at him at a time without getting in each other's way, but he'd hate to have to hold off more than three or four while Gwen checked the cells – and what if he wasn't _here_ , here, after all? – freed her brother, then retreat still fighting to that trapdoor…

No. He needed a diversion. He looked at Gwen, who bit her lip and met his glance uncertainly. It was a pity she wasn't wearing a dress.

"Unbutton your shirt," he told her.

Dark eyes widened incredulously. "I beg your –"

"Not all the way," he hissed. "Just a few, to…" He gestured at his own chest, hoping she'd understand. She didn't, by the look she gave him, but proceeded to unbutton her shirt anyway. "Now tuck the collar under," he coaxed. "Show him a nice distracting bit of skin."

"Like this?" she said.

 _Yes. Um. Very distracting._

"Here goes nothing," he muttered, and gave her a shove past the corner, into the guard's view.

"Oh my goodness!" she squeaked – of course drawing his attention – her expression appalled, then frightened.

"Who are you?" the guard said – but not loudly. His stool scraped, his boots sounded, coming closer. "Where'd you come from, pretty little bit like you?"

Gwen backed to the wall, chest heaving as her breathing quickened. Gwaine grinned. She could have his head later – or she'd tell Arthur, and the prince could have his head. Two more steps and the diversion would be successful – one more –

The guard moved into view, twice as big around the middle as Gwaine himself – and so totally focused on the maid's feminine charms that he forgot to wonder if she wasn't alone, or capable of defending herself.

Gwaine leaped out, catching the guard around the neck – effectively silencing him except for the quick panicked gasps as he clawed Gwaine's forearm, choking him slowly into unconsciousness.

Until, of course, Gwen lifted her knee to attack the guard's masculine charms with enough force to double him over with a grunt, taking Gwaine with him. His boots left the floor long enough for him to give a jerk of his head signaling Gwen – she sidestepped quickly – he released his hold and dropped down to the floor to kick the guard's tailbone. The man crashed head-first into the wall Gwen had backed up to, and his massive bulk crumpled down into an unmoving mound at the base of it.

"Well done," Gwaine congratulated her – and held his tongue on anything further at the narrow look she gave him, fingers already busily fixing her blouse. He bent to retrieve the keys, gripping them in a clump to make less noise. "Come on."

He sprinted on his toes to the other end of the hall, peeked around that corner – no one. She started at her end, sliding the window-panels open on the cell doors to peer inside. Gwaine tried the one the guard had been sitting against; it was empty, but the one across from it was not.

A dark-skinned man dressed in a plain white shirt and a sleeveless tunic over it, hood hanging down his back, was seated on the floor. He lifted his head where it had been tucked between his elbows, as his wrists were chained to the wall just above his head. He glared at Gwaine's face in the tiny opening of the door, and Gwaine grinned back, impressed by the other's courage. It wasn't everyone who kept or dared that spirit when captive in such a place with little hope of rescue.

"What's your name, mate?" Gwaine spoke through the opening – but Gwen gave neither of them any chance for further conversation.

"Is that him?" she said. "Did you find him?" She shoved him aside to peer through the opening. "Elyan!"

"You shouldn't have come back for me, Gwen," he told her. "What were you thinking?"

"You're probably right," she retorted. "You'd think I'd have learned by now." Gwaine was already trying the keys to find the right one; she snatched them from his hand. "You keep watch for anyone coming," she told him. "Or Arthur."

"Arthur?" Elyan echoed, as the key scratched in the lock and the door creaked open. "Prince Arthur of Camelot?"

Gwaine moved into the doorway to keep an eye on the two of them while still facing the corridor – where any hindrance would come from. "Oh, it's not me," he reassured the other man with a grin.

"Why would Arthur want to help you?" Elyan asked, as Gwen knelt beside him to try several smaller keys on the locked bar holding his wrists in place.

"Why shouldn't he?" Gwen snapped, trying the second key.

"Uh, because he's a prince and you're a servant?"

Gwen sat back on her heels. Gwaine wanted to warn the younger man not to irritate her while she held his freedom just out of his reach, but didn't want to draw her ire on himself, instead. Sisters and brothers, always so complicated – he wanted to stay out of it.

Until Gwen said, "He doesn't care about that sort of thing. He's…" She fiddled with the keys, and tried another one, maybe to avoid meeting her brother's eyes. "You know, chivalrous."

Gwaine couldn't help snorting – but immediately faced out of the cell to cover it.

"Right," Elyan said "So he's like that with all the maids in Camelot?"

"No. Yes. I mean…" The locking-bar squealed open.

Elyan scrambled to his feet. "It seems that things have changed for you Guinevere."

"Yes, I suppose they have," she said shortly, and joined Gwaine in the doorway.

From behind them, her brother spoke quietly, "I'm glad."

"I'm Gwaine," he said, turning to offer the younger man his hand, and his grin. "I'm here specially on hire, because normally I'm banned from Camelot for being too good at what I do."

"And that is?" Elyan said, giving his hand a quick but strong shake. Blacksmith, hadn't Gwen said?

"Fighting too hard, and talking too much."

Gwen rolled her eyes, and Gwaine motioned them to take the corridor back toward the trapdoor; he'd cover their retreat if necessary. And at least they stopped squabbling long enough to retrace their steps silently – Gwaine stepped as a counterweight on the back end of the two-foot square slab to lift the other end. Elyan grabbed it, nodding thanks, and Gwen was the first one back down the hole to the waiting barrel beneath.

But her brother wasn't finished, as he eased his legs down after her, he asked, "You're angry with me, aren't you?"

Gwaine rolled his eyes. Then again, he had no room for exasperation, did he?

"A bit," she snapped, making way for Elyan to jump down from the barrel. "Where have you been, Elyan?"

"Here and there."

Gwaine listened once more – heard nothing – and lowered himself down to the subterranean labyrinth also, crouching on the barrel lid and watching the sister raise her hands to her hips. Letting her worry come out in anger, now that they'd both reached a place of relative safety. He listened without embarrassment – neither of them seemed worried about his presence. And, possibly, he deserved this scolding too.

"It's been four years since you left and not so much as a word. You could've been dead for all I knew."

"I meant to get in touch," Elyan apologized, hanging his head, and Gwaine felt a sharp pang of guilt. If they got out of this place – _when_ they got out of this place – alive, he was determined to write a letter of his own. "It never seemed like the right moment."

"So when our father died, wasn't that the right moment, either?"

The silence was thick. Gwaine chose to hop down from the barrel and reclaim his bow and quiver of arrows, nudging her a bit out of his way to better see the dust-message he'd left. It had been added to.

Elyan did about the only thing a man could do in the situation – he put his arms around his sister and held her, though she resisted him at first. "I'm sorry. I haven't been much help, have I?"

"That'll change," Gwaine predicted.

"What do you mean?" Elyan asked him, letting his arms drop. Gwen's eyes asked the same thing, though she said nothing.

"Could you find your way back out?" Gwaine said to her. She hesitated, thought, then slowly shook her head. "I'm going back up," he told the siblings, checking his quiver. Eight he could take down, before he'd resort to closer-quarters fighting again. "If Arthur's in trouble, I'll hear it better from up there. We don't think Cenred knows about these tunnels – but if everything goes really bad, you two will have to try to make your way out." He looked at Gwen. "Back to the horses, back to Camelot. Right? He'd want to know you're okay."

She nodded.

"Cheer up," he added with a grin, jumping back up on the barrel and placing his palm against the trapdoor. "Arthur's not alone." Both of them looked where he pointed.

As he lifted the door – both corridors still clear – he heard Elyan say, "M? What does that mean?"

" _Merlin_."

Gwaine had to smile at the sound of her voice, happy, hopeful, caring. He lifted himself up through the hole again, drawing his legs up out of the way.

"Who's that, then? One of Arthur's knights?"

"No," Gwen said, as Gwaine lowered the trapdoor again. "He's got ma-"

Thud.

Gwaine straightened, readying an arrow but not drawing the bowstring. He could see nothing; he could hear nothing. If he went after them, he could miss their return and then they'd probably wait for him even if they shouldn't. But if they escaped with every man and the witch hard on their heels, Gwaine could cover this last stretch.

He waited.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

For a brave man, Arthur felt like a coward.

Methodically he checked the half-dozen cells on the left-hand corridor, more aware of Morgana breathing and moving just out of his peripheral vision behind him than the task at hand. Empty.

They moved on without speaking, up a half-stair and around a corner. No sound but their boots on bare stone floor, the whisper of their clothing, the breaths they took. The torches few and far between.

And Arthur could not make up his mind, what to do.

Merlin had a steadfast and hidden courage, to walk among enemies and still risk his heart making friends. Arthur could not have done it. Would not have allowed the son of his enemy to pass unchallenged long enough to discover any traits worthy of dedicating loyalty or friendship to. It would have frustrated him to insanity to have his accomplishments and sacrifices overlooked or attributed to another; he'd been taught and trained to claim his glory, every time. Merlin's values, it seemed, differed greatly.

And Morgana also. Had entered an enemy's castle, intending to keep her new identity secret. How long?

Every footfall echoed the question, how long? As long as it took to bring Camelot to its knees.

How did one deal with a known traitor? Arthur tried to consider the question objectively. Gather evidence for an open confrontation, anticipating execution. Or, use the knowledge to confound and conquer the enemy, by supplying misinformation. Neither of which he could do without his father's cooperation, even supposing Arthur and Morgana made it out of this castle without open altercation.

If it had been a man – one of his closest knights, trusted for years – Arthur would not have hesitated to face him and demand an explanation, throw down an immediate challenge. But this was Morgana.

Time passed. Cells were passed. Soon they'd have to turn back to meet Gwaine and Guinevere at the entrance to the labyrinth, hoping for their success and a quick escape. If not…

He began to wonder what Morgana's plan was. A knife between his ribs, while he was not looking her direction? A carefully-timed scream? If they did find Elyan down this next hall, would she simply follow along and maintain her pretense back through the labyrinth, back to Camelot, to try another plan, another day? Or would she –

"Arthur," Morgana said. Not a whisper hissed in caution, nor yet more customary self-assurance. Just – calm. Maybe a bit desperate. "Arthur."

He glanced over his shoulder, irritated, prepared to hush her – and stopped. A short, slight man wearing a turban and a scarf over the lower half of his face stood just behind her, his sword over her shoulder and snugged up to her neck. She couldn't see who it was; green eyes were wide with alarm.

And Arthur didn't know if this nameless underling knew who Morgana was. Or if he'd actually hurt her, if Arthur didn't cooperate.

In the moment of his turning, another shadow moved at the corner of his vision, but the hand he put to the hilt of his sword was grabbed by another. He turned his head – another man rendered unidentifiable by turban and scarf.

He squeezed, and Arthur released his hilt. His sword was drawn and taken, and the man who'd claimed it nudged Arthur, issuing silent commands. _Turn. Walk_. Down that hall. Up a stair. Around a corner – then another. Arthur heard the footsteps of the second of Cenred's men forcing Morgana to follow.

Through a pair of doors fitted to a wide arched doorway was a chamber half the size of his quarters in Camelot, though the ceiling was twice as high. Two cowhides were spread over the dusty floor, one under a sturdy high-backed chair like a throne, the other under a crate that served as a table or sideboard; it help a tray with a pitcher and two goblets.

Two goblets. Arthur wondered, who they were intended for. As he was shoved forward, and kicked to his knees.

A shadow to one side of the single chair shifted, and Cenred turned to face the light, several torches flickering in wall-sconces. The two swords crossed over his shoulders, and a rather manic grin on his face behind his curtain of greasy hair.

Arthur reflected that he was in much the same position as Merlin had been, six weeks ago, on his knees before Uther. Cenred did not have Aerldan or a ready pyre – though Arthur wondered where the witch was, and what she'd do – he marveled that he felt no fear.

"Well, well," Cenred said. "Arthur Pendragon. How kind of you to pay me a visit."

Arthur did not make the retort about irresistible invitations that rose to his tongue – the more moments that passed when Morgana did not reveal the presence of Gwaine and Guinevere meant the greater the likelihood of _their_ success. Perhaps they'd found Elyan already – Arthur and Morgana surely hadn't.

"And look," Cenred went on, as Arthur didn't reply. He sauntered across the room with a mad glimmer in his eyes. "You brought a friend with you." Morgana, restrained by the arms of the shorter disguised man, struggled to escape him, to escape Cenred. "The Lady Morgana, no less." He shoved his man away to put one arm across her body – over her shoulder, down toward her opposite hip. Then he inhaled the scent of her hair – rather too obviously, as if he was playing to more than just Arthur.

She jerked away from him as far as she was able. "Don't so much as breathe on me, you pig," she snapped with revulsion.

Arthur thought, that was the most honest feeling he'd seen from her in a very long time. He shifted and curled his toes under, the better to leap into action when the opportunity presented, but for now he was content to remain physically passive. "You're a coward, Cenred," he said. "You always were. Why don't you pass me one of those blades and we'll prove in clean battle which of us is the more deserving to rule."

"It's cowards that survive, Arthur," Cenred sneered. "You can die very bravely, very soon, if that's what you desire. But first, you're going to tell me everything you know about Camelot."

Arthur shook his head and didn't try to suppress a smile. "I don't think we're going to have the time for that."

"Do you expect your friends to rescue you? We'll take them, too," the enemy king said sarcastically, turning his face to Morgana's hair and neck again. "The more the merrier, I always say."

"Arthur, please!" Morgana cried out.

Objectively, he thought, _she really does detest his attentions. And that's probably why he persists – because he knows it annoys her. Or… someone else, maybe, who's watching this little charade_?

Cenred, perhaps uncertain over Arthur's indifference, or perhaps enjoying his play-acting a little too much, gloated, "What shall I do with her first, my prince?"

Perhaps it was pride that answered. Or impatience. Arthur heard himself say, "What do you think she'll let you get away with? Her or her sister?"

Morgana's mouth dropped open, her struggles stilled. Cenred said blankly, "I beg your pardon?"

"Perhaps you could start by paying her," Arthur continued. "What is the cost of confidential information these days? I doubt I can add much to what she's already told you." It was a taunt, more than a truth – he didn't want them to agree, and kill him out of hand. There were things he knew that she wouldn't, things about military training and strategy, even things that had changed since she'd been gone.

"I'm sorry, I don't –" Cenred began, but a new voice interrupted him.

"He's guessed, hasn't he?"

Arthur turned his head to see the blonde woman, the witch, move out from an alcoved doorway. His mouth went dry; she was wearing the same extravagant wine-red dress as she had been when she'd conjured the spirit of his mother – the one image guaranteed to strip reservations and inhibitions and leave him absolutely vulnerable to her manipulation, heart and soul.

And she'd done the same again, hadn't she – using an image they'd all believed in. Ward, friend, mistress.

Though there had been one to see through the subterfuge, both times. In memory Arthur heard Merlin say, _I won't let you do this_. At the time, neither he nor Morgause had paid the servant any mind.

"Not quite as stupid as you told us he was," Morgause added, gliding around him, just beyond reach. Eyeing him like he was a side of mutton and she the eager butcher. She hissed the last word, " _Sister_."

Morgana shrugged Cenred off, clearly furious – but now, it seemed, with Arthur. He rose to his feet from his kneeling position; no one stopped him, probably because Morgause would have no problem killing him with a snap of her fingers – and yawn while she was doing so.

"Why did you do it?" he said to Morgana directly. "Weren't we your family just as much – more so?"

"Family," Morgana spat bitterly, mockingly. "Your father allowed my father's death. He would have killed my sister – he would have killed me, if he had known me at all."

"Your magic, you mean." The words sounded so foreign, his tone amazingly calm.

"I would have been executed for something I had no control over, something I didn't even ask for! My _family_ would have watched me die and never –"

"You're wrong," Arthur told her. Ignoring, for the moment, the witch and the king, trying to reach Morgana. For what, he didn't know. Another change of heart? But could she return to Camelot with them, after all she'd done? At least a chance for that change of heart, different choices… different destiny. Was it even still possible? "Do you remember Mordred? Do you remember how Merlin and I risked our lives to help him escape? Someone we didn't know. Because we believed he didn't deserve death."

"Merlin," she scoffed, but he didn't let her continue.

"Do you really believe we wouldn't have helped you? Protected you?"

"Like you helped and protected Merlin?" she hissed, sidling until she stood next to Morgause – and the action spoke volumes louder than the words. "Like he helped and protected me?"

It would have hurt far worse, had he not seen Merlin's smile, just the day before. "You didn't trust us," Arthur said. "You didn't give us a choice."

"I did!" Morgana shrieked, and the torches flickered as if in a high wind. "I told him I thought –" Morgause put a hand on her arm and she glanced aside, immediately swallowing whatever else she had to say.

"You were out, Morgana," Arthur said, tempering his tone deliberately to something more persuasive. Almost pleading. "You were away. You had safely escaped. You could have written to me, to my father – to Guinevere even – telling us you weren't coming back, and why. Or you could have –" He swallowed, _led us to believe you were dead_. He should stop talking, let them put him in a cell or somewhere he could plan an escape from – it would be useless to try, in the presence of the witch. "You did not have to return, to attack us. To betray us."

"I was not the one who started this war, Arthur Pendragon," Morgana hissed. "But I will gladly do whatever it takes to finish it."

"This is all very delightful, I'm sure," Cenred drawled. He crossed to pour himself a goblet of wine from the service on the crate, then retreated to settle into the room's only chair. "But rather a waste of time, don't you think? Deal with this Pendragon – I am anxious to take on the other. Broken and waiting to hand me Camelot."

"You will never have it," Arthur said. A warning, and a promise.

"Perhaps you have little of value to tell us after all," the blonde witch stated. "And perhaps we have merely not lighted upon the proper incentive. Did you know that your servant poisoned my sister?"

Morgana, lying limp and pale in the witch's arms. Merlin, haunted and helpless – he'd been uncharacteristically grim and gaunt, that whole year they'd spent searching. The humor between them half a second slow, and edged, sometimes. Now he understood why Merlin had felt responsible, also.

"Somehow he managed to escape my retribution for that, the first time," Morgause went on. "I was disappointed to miss his execution, but I'm told it was… impressive." She glanced at Morgana, who smirked, and at his sides, Arthur's fists clenched. "I shall have to make do with watching the master of the servant burn." She spat a phrase of spell-work, and Arthur's hair blew in a sudden gust of hot wind.

A column of whirling fire sprang up from the stone floor – _this is ironic somehow, I'm sure_ – involuntarily he stepped back from the heat, blinking and shielding his eyes, settling into a defensive stance as if he could fight the magic with his empty fists.

It followed, moving, pressing – cornering him.

"Was he in pain for very long, do you think?" Morgause called, hand outstretched to guide and control the fire, "Your Merlin?"

In a moment, he thought, he'd try diving past it, through it – to the door, out the door. What else could he do? He would not betray his friends, any information that protected those loyal to or dependent on Camelot.

Torture. Fire. If Merlin could do it, so could –

The increasing heat was nigh unbearable, the glare blinding –

And the world exploded.

He couldn't see. He couldn't hear. Something struck his chest.

Something struck his head.

 **A/N: Dialogue from ep.3.7 "The Castle of Fyrien".**

 **Sorry this is late, the last section really kicked my butt. And it's my birthday weekend, so I wasn't focused on writing like I normally am… But we're still on track for 18-20 chapters… And cliffie – sorry! Hopefully the next chapter will come quicker…**


	17. Flame and Judgment

**Chapter 17: Flame and Judgment**

 _"I shall have to make do with watching the master of the servant burn."_

The corridor was quiet enough – Merlin was creeping silently enough, alert for any noise preceding approaching enemies – to hear the witch's statement as an insidious whisper.

And then the magic. He felt it, recognized what it would do – fire, and lots of it.

Merlin's heart thudded once in his chest, then shot up to his throat. His nightmare – Arthur burning on the pyre – he froze, expecting an agonized shriek of death.

The torch beside Merlin flickered uneasily in the silence.

Or was this the nightmare?

He heard her speak again, that arrogance intended to provoke could only be for Arthur – she was toying with him, then, not burning him to death immediately. Merlin sprinted forward, silent wings on his heels – braced himself in the only open doorway to take in the scene in an instant glance.

On the left, Cenred in a great chair like a throne, slouched lazily, negligently lifting a full cup of wine, grinning as though he watched a jester perform. Next to him, Morgause – leaning forward, hand outstretched as if to grasp impossibly a two-foot wide column of orange-white fire and swirling smoke like a warrior grasps a javelin. Morgana, obscured by the flame and ripple of hot air, but motionless; further behind her at the wall, two muffled fighters.

And on his right, almost close enough to touch, Arthur Pendragon, unarmed and backing in a wary crouch from the flame.

 _Not_ shackled to a post… as unobservant knights lit the bristling tinder at his feet… and he screamed. And Merlin watched in helpless horror.

Barely the blink of an eye – and only Morgause had noticed him yet – his hand flew up of its own accord and he cried out a counter-spell. " _Merrtorr sweoolhat_!"

His palm tingled strangely. Half a second – less – he remembered the yellow residue from the ring-beacon Morgause had enchanted for Morgana to place. Too late to recall the magic, too late to wonder –

It reacted to his magic – added to his magic _changed_ his magic – exploded out of his grasp.

The fire _imploded_ , swallowing itself, shrinking harmlessly. But the hot air and smoke rushed out in a swift and massive and uncontrollable wave, like the intended beacon magnified and made a weapon. It slammed into him as well, knocking him back on the floor of the corridor.

His ears rang. The world swung, blurred, cleared. He resisted an urge to vomit and found hands and knees to scramble into the room – vaguely he noticed the arch was wider, and the wooden door missing, canted across a crate further into the room.

Hard to the right, his prince on the floor, draped over the rubble resulting from the mixed magic. Pebbles and dust littering his clothing also. And blood.

A sob wrenched itself upward through Merlin's throat. He caught Arthur's dusty golden head up in one hand, felt tremblingly at his neck-pulse.

Steady. Strong. Eyelids fluttered – blue shone.

"Arthur. Arthur? Come on…"

Frantically he checked the rest of his prince's body – no obvious injury except the bloodied tear in his shirt. But that appeared only shallow, a glancing blow from flying debris, not a deeper puncture wound. Arthur shifted, struggling back to conscious control – awareness sharpened in his eyes, but not pain, and Merlin sobbed again in relief.

Movement and noise caught his attention; as he turned his head he saw in quick succession – first Morgana, still motionless among more rocks and rubble, blood dark on the white skin of her face – Morgause, recovering slowly and almost drunkenly – Cenred slumped backward over the ruin of his chair, in a pool or wine or blood. The muffled fighters were both down, also.

His eyes connected with Morgause's manically-intense gaze – and they both rushed to facing each other on their feet, more or less steadily upright.

"You!" she spat. "I have had it with your – _survival_!"

Another fireball formed, quick as thought, and flew through the air hungry to devour his flesh – and his prince just behind –

He threw up his hands, and his shield.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur was disoriented even before he opened his eyes.

He heard Merlin's voice calling his name in broken desperation, felt Merlin's fingers feeling frantically for signs of life or injury.

Thought, _don't use your hands, Merlin you idiot, your hands_ \- broken damaged bleeding by that damn Aerldan – broken himself against the stone wall of the interrogation cell because he hadn't understood Merlin. Had underestimated Merlin.

No. Not quite right. Arthur was the one being interrogated. Threatened with torture, to reveal his secrets. But he had no magic to loose in self-defense, even accidentally.

He blinked, and focus came agonizingly slowly. _Oh, Merlin. There you are._

Agony moved toward relief in his friend's eyes – and then Merlin lifted his head to look away from Arthur. Relief sharpened to wariness.

Arthur's chest hurt. Skin and muscle burned and pulled with every dusty breath he dragged in, but he wouldn't give up the struggle to sit until he was upright. His shirt was torn, he noticed as his head dipped heavily on his chest, flesh and material bloodied.

The sound of Morgause's voice served to focus his attention. "I have had it with your – _survival_! Magic or not, I will take great pleasure in seeing you dead at last!"

He managed to drag his head up in time to see her make a throwing motion. And instead of ducking – Arthur knew he was capable of it, he'd seen him a dozen times avoid numerous objects he'd made into projectiles – Merlin spread his arms as if to present a greater target. Arthur flinched involuntarily.

Flame splashed against the air two feet from Merlin's body, crackling hungry and disappointed, licking for the edges of whatever invisible force held it at bay. Arthur dragged in a single breath, and the fire disappeared, leaving a faint scent like heated metal. Morgause stared at Merlin, who didn't move. Except, he was smiling.

"I've withstood dragonfire," the young sorcerer said into the violent stillness. "But you can try again, if you like."

Dragonfire. That sparked a memory, flash-fast into the haziness of Arthur's perception. Merlin's voice bellowing furious commands, whispering soothing magic, strange and sweet and sure. In a moment he'd turn that foolish grin on Arthur and tell him, _you dealt a mortal blow_ , and they'd both laugh at the glorious absurdity of life glowing in the darkness all around and the earth warm and damp beneath his body, head to heels. And wasn't it typical, that the first magic he'd seen Merlin actually perform, was something he couldn't see.

Morgause glared bitter hate, and tried quantity over quality – fire like arrows from the fastest longbowman – faster faster – hissed toward oblivion, so close Merlin must have felt the heat, at least. She stepped forward – Merlin stepped forward.

Arthur rolled to get up off his backside, preparing to run or fight or whatever Merlin needed – and there was Morgana, just beside him. He crawled to her; she breathed, her heart beat, but she responded not at all to his attempts to revive her.

"Don't touch her!" Suddenly Morgause's wrath was directed at _him_.

He glanced over his shoulder. The air shimmered between Merlin and the witch – _helluva magical shield, that, well done_ – she looked at Arthur, and Merlin watched her.

"Let me take her and go," Morgause said suddenly, her gaze darting back to the sorcerer who opposed her. "Is she alive? Let me take her and go!"

Merlin shifted half a step back toward Arthur and Morgana. "No," he said. His voice was deeper in its defiance, the assurance of authority that would have even knights obeying instinctively, and something Arthur had never heard from him before. "No. Not this time."

"I can save her," Morgause hissed, sliding forward a step. "Like last time, Merlin – I can save her. Do you want her death on your hands after all?"

"You might have saved her body," Merlin returned grimly, "but you destroyed her soul."

"You helped!" she snapped.

Arthur saw Merlin's cringe shrink the set of his shoulders slightly – he glanced back at Arthur. Just briefly, as if to check Arthur's reaction or mood, but he must have forgotten that he _held_ a magic shield – his eyes glowed molten gold.

So very alien. And something Arthur had been taught to hate and fear. Yet in that moment, it was as much a part of Merlin as his black hair or prominent cheekbones, lanky frame and bony joints and cheeky grin. It _fit_. And it calmed Arthur.

"No," he said, to Morgause. Working one arm under Morgana's shoulders, tucking the other behind her knees, he ignored the ripping sensation in his chest to plant one foot – hold her tight and fast – and push to his feet. "No, you can't have her."

Aside from the unanswerable questions the king would have, if they returned without her. Aside from Arthur's doubts about Morgana's place if they returned with her, considering what she had and what she'd done. Aside from Merlin's guilt and Guinevere's hope. This woman clearly intended no good for Morgana – no assured safety, no contented happiness. Already Morgana had shown herself changed – more spiteful, more ruthless, and it would only get worse, if she was left to the blonde witch's dubious care.

Morgause's expression was thunderous. Her body hunched in a way that chilled Arthur's blood, head bowed – but eyes still on them, reflecting hostile magic. The walls trembled, dust sifted, the rubble shifted.

"Go," Merlin said to Arthur.

He eased behind the sorcerer toward the door, gave an instinctively defensive glance back toward their enemy – and froze. Merlin's hands were outstretched, in an attitude of maintaining his shield. But his left hand looked wrong.

The smallest finger ended at the last joint. Arthur felt faint and sick, seeing again in memory the younger man's hands twisted and bleeding in Aerldan's torture as he spoke a truth that wasn't believed, and hoped not to be hated for it.

When Merlin could have said, the hell with it. With it all, secrecy lies risk mockery servitude pain loss –

Friendship. Hope. For Arthur, he'd stayed.

"Go!" Merlin repeated, more insistently, without glancing back to see why Arthur hesitated.

Smaller stones rose in the air, obeying Morgause's magic. Larger blocks slithered along the ground toward them; the soles of Merlin's boots slid backward also, as he leaned into his hold on his defensive magic. Arthur passed through the damaged archway, checking the corridor for any of Cenred's men – so far it remained empty.

Merlin took a step back, then another – then suddenly scrambled and ducked as the doorway filled with broken stone like the collapse of a wall in reverse. The very dust quivered and sparkled, holding the wall of rubble blocking the doorway.

Arthur coughed and closed his mouth – and hefted his burden to cover his absolute astonishment. Merlin risked a glance, then straightened with the same pleased expression he often gave Arthur's freshly-scrubbed floor.

"That ought to hold her awhile," he said with satisfaction. A rumble sounded from inside the blockaded room, and he added, "But we should hurry."

Arthur stuffed all emotion – surprise consternation gratitude exultation – deep down, in favor of immediate and necessary action. "Lead the way."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

From his place guarding the trapdoor, Gwaine heard – _felt_ – the uneasy rumble in the belly of the castle. Almost certainly magic – but whose? And how long should he wait before –

Every sense alerted in an instant, and he swung his bow to the left. Around the corner at the far end of the corridor, Arthur staggered, his arms full of Lady Morgana's lifeless body. And behind him, but facing backward as they retreated – slowly, awkwardly, but together – Merlin.

Gwaine stepped on the back edge of the trapdoor to lift the front, lowered his bow to get his fingers in the gap, knowing Merlin would cover for them better than he could, anyway.

"Is she dead?" he called to Arthur, grim under the strain of her weight. Because even if she was, he could see the prince adamant about returning to Camelot to lay her body to rest.

"Not yet."

He didn't know whether to cheer that, or mourn. Merlin half-turned at the sound of Gwaine's voice – he was pale and his hair disheveled with sweat and dust, and he was holding his hands protectively by his chest in an instinctive attitude Gwaine recognized.

"Elyan!" he called down the trapdoor, and saw the dark-skinned man move expectantly into view.

Arthur knelt awkwardly by the hole, and Gwaine helped him stuff the unconscious lady's legs down. They lowered her, while Elyan guided and received from below.

"You've got her?" Arthur said shortly.

"Yes," came the answer.

"Go," Gwaine told him, and Arthur didn't argue, sitting on the edge a moment before descending. There was a rip in the front of his shirt, and blood, but it looked to be smeared and drying, not soaking through the material from a serious wound. Gwaine glanced up again. "Merlin?"

"I'll go last," the sorcerer said, facing defensively down the hall, which remained empty.

"If you're sure…" Gwaine secured the bow over his head and one shoulder, checked that the barrel-top was clear, and hopped down.

Elyan had the unconscious lady securely in his arms, and his sister had the prince securely in hers. "Arthur," they heard her breathe. "Are you hurt?"

"Not really." Arthur looked over her head. "So you're Elyan?" Polite introductions cut short in the situation. "You're all right?"

"Yes, my lord." To both questions. Elyan ducked his head respectfully but with shy reservation as Gwaine jumped to the floor of the cave.

"What happened?" Gwen said, releasing Arthur.

"Morgause," Arthur said grimly, as Merlin's lanky body filled the square overhead and dangled momentarily. The sorcerer dropped to a crouch on the barrel-top – glanced up with a flash of gold to send the trapdoor slamming down into place. Gwaine reached to steady him as he clambered down the rest of the way, then turned for one of the torches they'd left, reclaiming Merlin's cloak as well.

Gwen turned from Arthur to the younger man. "Oh, _Merlin_ ," was all she said, flinging her arms around his ribs.

He and Arthur and Elyan watched for a moment of awkward silence as Merlin hesitated, glancing at Arthur, then wrapped his arms carefully around her, murmuring something they couldn't hear. She chuckled, raising her head to give it a quick negative shake, beaming at Merlin.

"We need to move," Arthur said, swinging about as if searching the debris on the floor – down the passage – for something. "Cenred and the witch were trapped – don't know how long it'll hold them, or how badly either might have been injured."

"They won't come this way," Merlin said, jerking his head to indicate the trapdoor as Gwen stepped back again, to give her attention to her mistress in Elyan's grasp. "I've sealed it."

"Cenred will probably have at least one patrol still scouting the shoreline," Arthur continued, straightening with one of the abandoned swords in his hand, brushing cobwebs from the blade with his sleeve. "He won't have had time to recall them - or give notice that we've escaped. We'll have to take turns carrying her."

Merlin retrieved the second torch; Gwen looked up from brushing hair back from Morgana's bloodied forehead to examine the wound.

Gwaine said to her, "Don't I get a hug? Aren't you glad I'm not dead?"

She huffed in exasperation, twitching away from him. "Yes, Gwaine. I'm glad no one has killed you yet. Means I haven't lost my chance to do it."

Elyan narrowed a questioning glance at him, but Gwaine shrugged, unperturbed even at the memory of Gwen's distraction of the guard, at his urging. "That's a common reaction, actually."

"Especially from ladies," Merlin murmured.

"Let's go," Arthur said. He tested the balance of his sword briefly before turning to lead the way through the labyrinth.

Somehow Merlin ended up just behind and beside Arthur with the first torch, followed by Gwen and her brother carrying Morgana, then Gwaine with the second torch. They went as swiftly as they could, stopping twice to switch the burden of the injured Morgana, who didn't rouse at all through the process. The first, Gwaine and Elyan traded – light for lady – and the blacksmith claimed an abandoned sword from the side of the tunnel floor, also.

The second time, Arthur took his turn, in spite of the shallow wound on his chest, and Merlin's protest.

"You really think you could carry her, any great distance, any great speed?" Gwaine said to Merlin, moving up beside Gwen and behind the young sorcerer.

"We need you free to use your magic," Arthur said shortly – because of the weight he was carrying, trying to move smoothly and quickly. Gwaine found he was proud of the young prince also, that phrase _your magic_ coming so naturally and without hesitation; he'd _told_ Merlin it didn't take much getting used to.

Maybe Merlin felt the same; he tossed a brief twinkly grin back at Guinevere and Gwaine. "What makes you think I need to use my hands?" he quipped.

Gwaine laughed; Arthur grunted.

But when they reached the shale-shore and discarded the torches, the prince didn't stop or even slow. "The horses aren't far, let's just keep going."

Gwaine moved into the lead, since neither Elyan nor Merlin – or maybe _he_ did – knew where they'd left mounts and baggage, in a tiny hidden hollow in the forest. If there were patrols – like Arthur had suggested, and Gwaine agreed with the probability – and they had either seen them or found the hollow, in their place _he_ would –

A bellowed enemy order to attack was scant warning for his friends. But enough.

Gwaine acted without thinking, dancing into defense forward and to the right flank to protect the prince – Merlin was to the left, Elyan in the rear. And maybe it was just _him_ , but he didn't think much of Cenred's training regimen. The first attacker fell to Gwaine's second strike; the second to a feint.

Then Arthur was fighting also, arms unburdened to arm himself with the borrowed blade of the last battle fought at this castle. Gwaine cringed in a cheerful way for the horrible wounds a rusty dulled blade could make – but the prince wasn't taking prisoners. Two more fell.

As no other enemies immediately offered him a fight, Gwaine took a breather to watch Elyan acquitting himself well with his own appropriated weapon – his technique was clumsy, his follow-through blunted, but he appeared to have the basics of block and attack mastered, all resolve and no hesitation. Good raw material there, Gwaine thought, but then again, he didn't suppose smith-work was for the timid.

Merlin crouched protectively over Gwen, who was with Morgana – who was still unconscious. One would-be attacker leaped at Elyan's back – only to scream and drop a sword glowing red at the hilt, before Gwaine could open his mouth to shout the warning. An instant and a turn of his head later, Merlin was glaring magic at a dead tree limb – which crashed down on Arthur's last opponent, scant inches from the prince's sword-arm.

And then the rest of the patrol was retreating – scattered and thoroughly thrashed. Arthur spun the old blade at his side, checking – as Gwaine did – all points of the compass around them to be sure they were victorious, before relaxing his stance.

"No one's hurt?" he said, a rather rhetorical question. He gave Gwaine and Elyan a quick glance, before turning to the other three. "You've done this before," he said significantly to Merlin, indicating the enemy crumpled under the dead-wood. Merlin answered with a self-conscious smile and shrug.

Gwaine slid his own sword back into his belt, turning to compliment Elyan, "Not bad."

"Practice makes perfect. I guess." Elyan appeared a bit shaky, now that it was over. Gwaine wondered if that was his first real fight with edged weapons and a determined enemy, and did the other man the courtesy of not asking.

"Practice makes better," he corrected. "And we all need it – even his highness. I'll show you a thing or two, sometime."

Elyan nodded quiet gratitude and acceptance, still looking at bit lost. Gwaine grinned and slapped his shoulder, turning to jog the dozen paces to the horses and gear. The dark-skinned blacksmith would soon realize that he'd been found.

Just as Gwaine himself had been, actually.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

That night, Arthur didn't call for a halt until half an hour after sundown.

Three horses meant Guinevere was mounted, and he and the other three men had taken turns, moving as fast as the party as a whole was able. Elyan had been imprisoned for the better part of a week, chained and kept on little better than bread and water – probably, he hadn't actually asked - and not enough of either. Merlin had wrapped a hasty bandage around Arthur's chest, not meeting his eyes. He carried these things, evidently; Arthur thought it might be a habit instilled by Gaius.

"Your head?" Merlin had said only, as he finished the bandage. Still not looking him in the eye.

"Mild headache." Arthur put his arms back in the sleeves of his shirt, retrieved his vest from Merlin's shoulder. "What about her?"

Morgana remained motionless and silent. Which wasn't good, Arthur knew and no one said; haste and the safety of the rest remained a priority.

With two long slender beech-trunks – felled and trimmed by Merlin's magic, a prosaic task that only Gwaine was unsurprised by – and one of their blankets, they built a pallet for Morgana to be carried in. It was attached to the saddle, and she was attached to it, and Merlin brought up the rear to erase the telltale tracks of the dragging frame that might lead an enemy to them.

Again, with magic. Arthur had to remind himself more than once to focus on the path ahead, not gawk to the rear like a spell-struck child.

He stood now just at the edge of the circle of campfire, leaning against a tree, arms crossed carefully over his chest. Watching. To both directions.

Arthur's position was between the camp and the now-distant castle of Fyrien, in case either enemy tracked them. Cenred had been injured, he supposed - mentally calling up the picture of the king sprawled unconscious across the tipped chair - his men further decimated. Whether he would make another attempt – whether he was capable of ordering it – Arthur's best guess was _probably not_. The witch, though, he'd have to ask Merlin's opinion on that.

He huffed a laugh to himself, and it was a little bitter. What he would give to be able to go back to certain times in the past, certain enemies faced, and be able to ask an opinion on enemy magic from someone he trusted, and who _knew_.

In a certain sense, he mused, they had all gone through that fire. Merlin's loyalty and purity of spirit had remained unchanged, shining all the brighter, that gold gleam of great magic and indomitable optimism glinting in his eyes.

Arthur himself. Belatedly and blindly struggling through the flames of grief and uncertainty and doubt – through the choking smoke to the truth beyond. Finding an honest balance of the scales of justice, the worth of friendship and commitment, beyond how any given man showed it. Leon, a knight ready to risk his current king's ire for the sake of his future king. Gwaine, breaking the law and risking his life to show rare trustworthiness and noble character for the sake of a friend. And Merlin, putting the safety of his friend and the good of the kingdom above his own needs and desires, time after time. Entirely unique, and exquisitely priceless.

Morgana. What had she to show for her trial by fire? She could have been forgiven her abandonment of Camelot had she chosen to live peacefully elsewhere. Her compassion and championship of justice had been traded for premeditated brutality, murder and treason. Ugly and worthless and shameful.

He watched Gwen carefully spoon-feed her unconscious mistress – resting in the frame where they'd laid it down flat - broth from the stew they'd eaten, thinned with more water. Merlin crouched at the fire, mixing and stirring something that had nothing to do with dinner, but reminded Arthur a bit of Gaius. His hands drew Arthur's eye again and again, but the young sorcerer betrayed no pain or hesitation in the use of either one. Which was something, Arthur supposed gloomily.

Off to one side, Gwaine and Elyan were stepping through a few easy parry-strike maneuvers. The blacksmith made a comment that had Gwaine throwing his head back to laugh out loud. Merlin looked up with a grin, and Arthur felt an involuntary smile tug at his own mouth.

How odd to think, these men – and Gwen – all common-born. Once he would have thought them beneath his interest, unworthy of his notice. And how much he would have missed, in his arrogance, short-sighted and closed-minded.

As different as the three of them were – blacksmith outlaw sorcerer – there was something there that he recognized was the same. To some extent, each of them was unconnected. Had cut the ties with the past to form new ones – had chosen a destiny, maybe? The way he himself never was free to… He glimpsed the flash of a new thought he dared not examine more closely - the convergence of these three disparate paths in the future, near or far.

His perception of the little scene turned. If there was chainmail and red cloaks, these could easily have been warriors, his knights – except, he couldn't see Merlin's slight build supporting an armor he didn't, after all, have any need of. But, just as much of a fighter as the others. Being able to protect, they'd accepted the responsibility of protection…

Elyan bent to lay the sword he'd collected from one of Cenred's men – like the one which now hung from Arthur's hip, a better replacement for his own than the rusty relic from the tunnel – by his bedroll, and stepped around Merlin to approach Arthur.

Disrupting his maybe fanciful thoughts; Arthur felt – almost – nervous, for this conversation.

"I want to thank you, sire," Elyan began, in a low even voice that reminded Arthur of one he hadn't heard in years - of Tom, Elyan's father. "And to apologize for the danger you and your friends faced, on my account."

His friends. Arthur glanced away from Elyan's dark eyes to the other two men. _Fighters_ , made him feel bold. _Friends_ , made him feel… was there a word for _not alone_?

"I have to admit," Arthur said, spurred to bare more of the truth than was comfortable for him, by the awkwardness of meeting someone for the first time, who was loved by someone he cared about, "I didn't do it for you."

"Of course not," Elyan said quickly. "You don't know me – and a prince shouldn't risk his life for a commoner – I just meant, I was the reason…"

Now he reminded Arthur of Guinevere, a little more. So the next admission slipped out. Premature, maybe, but less awkward. "It's what you do when you love someone."

Elyan's dark eyes were steady, but unreadable. "My sister?"

"I…" He set his jaw, wanting to be honest – about his feelings, but also about the situation. This hope might be ever disappointment, this desire go unfulfilled forever. "I do not have the freedom to make a declaration. Though Guinevere is a lady in every way that counts, she is not of noble birth, so I cannot…"

"Cannot tell her," Elyan said, shifting his eyes to his sister, kneeling beside Morgana with her back to them. "But you have shown her, I think." Almost it was a question.

Arthur glanced at the shorter man, and understood. This whole trip – yes, it betrayed his level of concern for Guinevere's happiness. And not just a temporary happiness, but something lasting that he might also share in. One day, to a greater extent. Somehow.

"My deepest apologies for offending you, my lord, but I have to ask." Elyan cringed a bit. "You and my sister, have you – you haven't, ah –"

"No," Arthur said immediately, feeling an entire-body flush, himself. "I wouldn't dishonor her that way, I care –" About her too much. Her reputation. Her chances at future happiness with another, if she chose. Because he could not speak, even to ask her to wait.

"Thank you for that also," Elyan said. "I – noticed that you seem to have lost your weapon, my lord?" He pointed at Arthur's belt.

"Yes, it was… unavoidable." Arthur sighed. "This is inferior, of course, but –" he shrugged – "adequate."

"Gwen said – my father was not replaced, as the royal blacksmith," Elyan said hesitantly. Arthur winced, remembering Tom's arrest for consorting with a renegade sorcerer – wasn't that what they all were doing now, at least in the eyes of the king and his law? "Perhaps, if I may request the use of the forge, I could form a replacement weapon for you? I am not yet as skillful as my father was, but – for this, I would do better than my best."

Arthur could not help smiling at him, and even went so far as to clap his shoulder. "I think that could be arranged," he said, even as his mind ran a length further – a cold forge, a trained blacksmith needing a home and work – yes, this could definitely be arranged. "Thank you very much for the offer."

Elyan made a little bow, and returned to a seat by the fire, between Gwaine and Merlin. Arthur caught him giving Merlin an odd look as if trying to figure him out – a man with magic, in company with the prince of Camelot – but Merlin made some response to a comment of Gwaine's that made them both chuckle, and his own wide grin seemed to relax the new addition.

To the side, his attention was caught when Guinevere rose from Morgana's side. She looked down at her mistress a moment longer, and when she turned, she lifted a hand to wipe a tear from her cheek. But instead of joining the three at the fire, she skirted their campsite to come to him. And as much as he ached, in that moment, to put his arms around her, he couldn't.

"How is she?" he said instead.

Guinevere shook her head. "The same. Her pulse is steady, if weak and slow, and she's breathing, but… What are you going to tell your father, when we get back to Camelot?"

Arthur sighed, and raised a hand to rub his forehead. There was no further proof of Morgana's treachery, or the magic that was her reason for it, more than what Merlin and Gaius already had, which wasn't enough. Except for Arthur's testimony, which would only introduce awkward and dangerous questions about where he'd gone and why, and who he'd been with and how he'd escaped. Admitting the lie about seeking silk for Morgana's dresses in payment for a lost bet, then asking his father to believe _this_ story, in the same breath. Acute awareness of various situations Merlin must have found himself in, over the years, shot through him.

What good would it do, to persuade Uther that his lovely and loving and long-lost-and-restored ward, had become the sort of untrustworthy vengeful sorceress he'd executed before? If Morgana recovered, Arthur might address what to do more privately with her – maybe with input from Gaius and Merlin. If she did not…

"I think we should tell him it was an accident," he said. "She fell from her horse – perhaps we say it was startled by a snake or something. We cut our trip short, naturally–" because they'd have no silk dresses to show in proof of that tale, anyway – "to bring her back to Gaius."

She bit her lip. "Do you think he can do anything for her?"

Arthur shook his head to indicate uncertainty of an answer, not the answer itself, watching Merlin rise and make his way to them, carrying the dish he'd been mixing his concoction in, his bag and his waterskin. Guinevere didn't notice his proximity, however, or she wouldn't have voiced her next question, artless and despairing.

"Arthur, what happened? How did she hit her head?"

"That was my fault."

Guinevere startled, and turned to watch Merlin place his bag on the ground at his feet before straightening. He transferred the dish to his left hand, to scrub the palm of his right on his trousers, absently, repetitively, gazing beyond Arthur.

"I panicked, a bit." He gave Arthur a sheepish grin, as if anticipating the taunt that might have been forthcoming if the situation were less serious. Or Arthur a bit shorter of temper. "Morgause called up fire to attack Arthur, and in… dissipating it, I maybe… caused an explosion. Of sorts."

Guinevere's eyebrows were up – Arthur reflected that she didn't have the benefit of Gaius' stories, or his own experiences, in the dungeon and in the forest. He supposed he did not blame Merlin at all for a slip of control when fire was involved – but it reminded him of something he wanted to ask the younger man.

"Merlin, about Morgause – do we need to fear her, tonight?"

He gazed down into the slurry in his bowl, stirred it by moving the dish in a gentle circular motion. "Tonight, I'd have to say, probably not. She likes to feel in control." A pensive, intelligent look quite alien to Arthur's experience passed over his friend's face, and he was struck by the trust the younger man was showing him, now. To show _himself_ , once again. "She likes to feel that she knows everything about a situation, more than the enemies she's chosen to face. I think she will come after me again – and definitely you…" an incorrigible grin, more familiar, and one that Arthur responded to with a roll of his eyes. "But probably not without a plan. And, an elaborate one…"

"Can you tell when someone who uses magic is close?" Guinevere asked curiously.

He turned his smile on her, his head ducked shyly, just a little. "No… but I can tell when magic is or has been used nearby… You're safe tonight. I promise you."

And, because Gwen didn't have the benefit of Gaius' stories, Arthur didn't blame her one bit for her next hesitant question. "Can – can magic do anything for Morgana? Can _you_ –"

Merlin's face twisted, just slightly. It might have been a trick of the uncertain firelight. "No, I – I did try. Once, this afternoon." He met Arthur's eyes – an apology, a plea – "I can't." With the barest hint of emphasis that caught Arthur's attention. _I_ can't.

But not Guinevere's. She nodded sadly. "I do miss her, you know," she said, before leaving them to take a seat beside her brother, some six or seven paces from them.

For a moment - as Arthur watched to be sure Gwaine was not paying her inappropriate attention - he considered whether to ask the question, or not. And Merlin stayed quiet.

Which was new also, and Arthur allowed a moment's diversion to think, maybe a good bit of Merlin's babbling was the underlying tension of his secret. To distract himself, as well as whoever he was with. And that made him wonder about the moments of quiet they'd shared, whether Merlin had achieved some measure of relaxation in his presence, illegal secret or no.

But each second that passed weighted the question further. He said, carefully, "Do you know of anything that might be done to heal Morgana. Even magically."

"I can't." Merlin's eyes were clear and honest blue. "But I might know someone who can."

"Who?" Arthur said.

"He's – something of an enemy, and really wouldn't be pleased to be asked, especially for Morgana, I'd have to order him –" He caught Arthur's surprise at that word coming out of his mouth – Merlin had people he could order? "So to speak," he hurried on, a bit lamely. "And I'd really hate to do that but for you I would. And Gwen, I guess. If you asked."

 _For the love of Camelot_. Arthur looked at Morgana. No change.

If he said yes, and Morgana was restored. She might regret her wrongs and take better care to choose the right, in the future. She might say she did, then work to undermine them as she had since her return. She might regret nothing, and taunt them with the inability to accuse her to the king, or to keep a perpetual guard on her, until the next catastrophe.

It was, a bit, like he'd considered when thinking of the question of those with magic. Did you make sure a future misdeed hurt no one else by executing the one in question? _You think as he does, then, that all magic-users should die?_ No.

But. Did she deserve death, the traitor's fate, for things she'd already done, choices she'd already made?

Yes. His hesitation, then, was over disinclination to be her judge and pronounce final sentence. To see the grief of other friends and bear responsibility for that. Objectively, he knew he wasn't guiltless, either, though he felt it a deep and sticky mire - to try to determine who was more righteous based on what principles and using what arguments.

He'd felt this same revulsion when Arrok had suggested carrying out an immediate judgment on Merlin. _Not me. I won't do it_. _I have no right_ …

But. He'd been raised to be king, one day. Which meant shouldering this responsibility as well. No matter how flawed his own experience or perception, still he had to make the judgment, execute or release. Death or life. To administer justice to the best of his ability, according to his knowledge of circumstances, and motivation.

"No," he said. "No, I won't ask you to force your friend to help, against his will. And if she dies, Merlin…" He waited til his friend met his eyes. "I take responsibility for it. Understood?"

Merlin nodded. "Can I do something for you, at least?" he said, gesturing at Arthur's chest. "I don't _think_ that cut needs to be sewn, but it should be cleaned and dressed properly."

Arthur wanted to tease him about his level of concern. Wanted to shrug it off with a typical knight's tough exterior. Couldn't help thinking about the macabre cuts he'd seen on Merlin's skin, in much the same place. He unbuttoned his vest and let it drop, loosened his shirt laces and tugged it off over his head.

"Kneel down here," Merlin added. "It'll be easier."

Arthur obeyed, one knee down, as the younger man crouched and unbound the hasty bloodied bandage still in place. Merlin wet a cloth from his waterskin to soak off the last few layers, then began to clean the area around the wound. Arthur tucked his chin to examine the slash – more of a scrape, really, only three parts of the mark were still welling new blood onto the cloth in Merlin's hand.

"Did it scar?" he said absently. His skin stung, but distantly. Merlin, focused on his work, hummed his need for clarification. "Yours, I mean."

Merlin retreated, taking his time laying that cloth aside and getting whatever medicinal paste he'd concocted in the little dish ready for application. When he spoke, it was with the same sort of physician's professional detachment that Gaius used. "Too early to say," he said. "Gaius thinks it's still fading."

Arthur wanted to demand a look at it himself. And at the same time, he was afraid to see it. But… "Your hands?"

Merlin might have been a painter at the masterpiece of a lifetime, daubing the paste – that did indeed soothe the sting – on the open cut. Very gentle, very slow, utterly absorbed in perfection of application. Arthur, for his part, shivered at a feeling both strangely tickly and utterly familiar. Being cared for by his servant's hands.

Because that rune might have been by the king's order, but Arthur was afraid the continued torture was partly his fault. "Your hands, Merlin," he said, softly but insistently. "Let me see your fingers."

Merlin sat back, bowl in hand. "Why?" he said. Not defensively or self-consciously, but with a surprising depth of compassion. For _Arthur_.

"Just – left hand." He couldn't beg; he couldn't order. He couldn't look away from where Merlin had that one finger curled out of sight under the base of the bowl.

Merlin sighed. Then transferred the dish to his right hand, and held out the left. Palm down, for a moment, then he flipped it over, and Arthur stared helplessly at the shortened finger.

So wrong. Merlin's fingers should all be _long_.

"Gaius did a good job," Merlin said conversationally. Arthur remembered waiting in the physician's chambers of a morning, six weeks ago. An old man's empty basket and bowed head and rare temper, and understood.

"I'm sorry," he said, feeling tears stab the backs of his eyes.

"Don't." Merlin drew his hand back, frowning slightly.

"I swear I thought… I didn't know he would…"

"Arthur…" Merlin's voice was little more than a sigh. He shook his head and reached into his pack for another roll of bandages; Arthur grasped his wrist to stop him.

"It was because I told you to tell him the truth, wasn't it?" he said. "Hells, I just wanted you to cooperate so he wouldn't hurt you, but he didn't believe you, did he? and then –"

"What I told him," Merlin said, pulling gently from Arthur's grasp. "Do raise your arms a bit, it's not easy putting a bandage here. Gaius said, it bothered you enough to question it, and you wouldn't stop until you had explanations, so in a strange sort of way, I guess, it was partly due to him that you believed Gaius. And me. And… changed your mind." The lilt of a question lifted his last sentence – he glanced quickly to Arthur's face as he leaned forward to pass the bandage-roll behind Arthur's back.

"I'm just sorry it came to that," Arthur said.

"So am I. I wouldn't have chosen it. But that doesn't make it your fault."

Arthur studied the younger man as he completed the bandage, and saw only open truth and honesty. Damn – still couldn't put his finger on it. Merlin turned aside for a handful of leaves to clean the residue from his little dish and Arthur stood, beginning to put his shirt back on.

"Oh don't," Merlin said, pulling a handful of white material from his bag and shaking it out into a spare shirt. "Wear this instead til we can clean and mend yours."

It would, Arthur supposed, prevent any _more_ awkward questions from his father, when they arrived in Camelot.

Merlin's movements were practiced and easy; to Arthur at once familiar and strange, as his former manservant helped him into the shirt – bent retrieved positioned the vest while Arthur was still adjusting cuffs and collar. The younger man met Arthur's half-amused, half-chagrined expression with one of subtle satisfaction – perhaps he had found a moment's comfort in their routine, too.

"Orryn's a good man," Merlin remarked.

Arthur snorted, remembering how the sorcerer would have occasion to know such a thing. "Do not make a habit of wandering the citadel corridors, Merlin," he ordered, "any time of day or night –"

"If anyone saw me," Merlin's protest interrupted, "they would just think –"

"And do _not_ spy on me, especially when I'm in my –"

"That wasn't what I was doing, no one wants to see –" Merlin's expression shifted from aversion to contemplation – "except maybe Gwen, but that's something I –"

"Don't even _think_ about that." Arthur turned from shrugging into his vest to stick his forefinger in the younger man's face. Which lit up with a uniquely impish grin-and-twinkle. Arthur sighed, and there was more than a bit of relief in it.

 _Don't ever change, Merlin,_ he thought. _Don't ever change_.

"Let's get some sleep," Arthur said aloud. "Morning will be here soon enough."

 **A/N: Some dialogue from ep.3.7 "The Castle of Fyrien."**

 **A longer one (word count, and update wait). But uncut Arthur &Merlin scenes!... And, there should be one more chapter before the epilogue… **


	18. Homecoming and Hope

**Chapter 18: Homecoming and Hope**

Midday, and the sun blazed overhead, the canopy of trees serving for shade, but also to trap the heat away from a strong clearing wind. Midsummer, so perspiration dampened skin and clothing; Arthur plucked his shirt away from cut on his chest, which had begun to itch beneath the bandage Merlin had placed.

The garment had been sewn by Guinevere the night before, and cleaned by a spell from Merlin, who'd ducked his head in an ineffectual attempt to hide the grin that sparked at Arthur's suspicious glance – giving him all the answer he needed. Yes, Merlin had done this sort of thing before, too.

Arthur raked his fingers through hair dampened with sweat as well, and stopped at the edge of the clearing, as Camelot came into view. A half-remembered dream-image invaded his consciousness – sunlight and safety and prosperity, the white-stoned citadel peaceful as he trod a ripe wheatfield – he smiled and turned to see his companions.

Guinevere on her white mare. Gwaine on the second, but dismounting in preparation to disappear soon into the countryside from which he was banned. Merlin laying his cloak aside – he'd been carrying it as unnecessary for warmth or concealment – to bend over Morgana, checking her once more in the improvised pallet drawn by Arthur's horse. Elyan reached to take the lead of the brown gelding from Arthur so he could mount Morgana's unneeded horse, and ride into Camelot as a prince should. At the end of the train so he could keep an eye on the unconscious girl he failed to protect – though it seemed that had transpired years ago.

Even with that memory of guilt and sorrow – a spur, perhaps, to do better and try harder in the future, for the people he was responsible for – _this_ , was what made the vision a dream, rather than a nightmare.

True friends and generous loyalty. Not only because they liked him – though he rather thought they did; he knew it was a feeling reciprocated - but because they believed in him. Which actually meant more, in the long run.

Arthur released his reins to Elyan, and took a few steps forward into the clearing. The skin of his chest, bruised and tight-feeling this morning, pulled a bit unpleasantly as he lifted his hands to his hips, contemplating his home, his imminent return.

The report to the king. Bearing his father's grief and censure. Telling a lie that would protect both Uther and Morgana. And he appreciated the difficulty of Merlin's position, so many years.

Guinevere would retreat into her role of proper servant – hands busy with work and eyes downcast so they wouldn't meet his and send sparks of joy along his veins which maybe he wouldn't be able to contain, one of these times, and be caught by someone else, lighting rumors that might catch and spread.

Merlin would be gone too. Arthur supposed he himself was as guilty as Gaius, now, supporting protecting aiding a fugitive. Again, a sympathetic pang for one who'd spent years facing the fact that what was _right_ , was also _illegal_.

"This is goodbye, then," Merlin spoke just behind and beside him, and he twisted slightly to see the younger man gazing at the view of Camelot. Somewhat wistfully, then Merlin's lips quirked. "Again."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin watched Arthur step away from the rest, out into the clearing. Hands on his hips, gazing up at the magnificent structure of white stone that he called home.

He didn't need magic to know what Arthur was thinking. For a time Arthur had been able to leave thoughts of the kingdom behind, enter a simpler if more dangerous world of open and personal threat. Decisions made swiftly and instinctively.

This was a process Merlin had watched half a hundred times over the years, since he'd learned the prince well enough to understand. He'd _seen_ Arthur. Seen the traits the prince hid or denied, the characteristics he focused on - to be the heir his father required, the kingdom accepted. Watched the behavior that was chosen appropriate. He'd also been given the rare privilege of seeing the role stripped away, like tournament armor or ceremonial finery – down to a single layer of fine cloth or even further to bare soul.

By now, he could see Arthur re-assuming the mantle of authority, internally.

Merlin felt the same, on occasion. It was very few with whom he was able to set aside the magic and just be Merlin. Very few who even knew he had magic, to set aside. Very few with whom Arthur could set aside the prince, and just be Arthur.

Destiny be damned, Merlin would die for the man, the prince, the friend he'd seen, any day. He'd live for him, too.

To prolong the moment further – or to silently offer a promise that more such moments were possible, in the future – Merlin stepped to Arthur's side.

"This is goodbye, then," he said, gazing at the towers of the citadel – below it the lower town – that he'd come to claim as home, also. But, a bit of a joke to lighten his prince's spirits – "Again."

Arthur grunted. "Never really said goodbye the first time."

Merlin shrugged. "You never really needed to."

"I didn't know that, did I?" Slightly petulant, more typically Arthur – resentful of things beyond his control. An inherited instinct, but he was nowhere near as bad as his father. Arthur sighed and dropped his hands. "Where will you go?"

"In case you need us, you can send a message?" Merlin teased, and watched Arthur struggle with the inclination to deny needing help with the obvious truth; though it might make him seem less of a king, it made him more of a man. "Here and there," Merlin added, taking a bit of pity on his friend. "If I tell you, that's one more treasonous secret you'll have to keep."

Arthur's brows drew together at the reminder, a thundercloud with gold lining like sunrise. "There's an abandoned castle," he said. "An hour southwest of Camelot. It's in ruins, but still habitable. It would afford you shelter, at least, and protection."

"From bandits, or patrolling knights?" Merlin said lightly.

Arthur fought the smile. "Both."

"And you'll be able to find us if you need us." Exhilaration filled Merlin's chest – Arthur wasn't going to try to insist he leave, for any reason. He hadn't expected to be able to return to Camelot openly – and maybe not for _years_ – but it was nice that he didn't have to go against Arthur's wishes, to stay.

The prince punched his shoulder; his impudent tone probably deserved it. "Gaius is an old man, with obvious loyalties to you. He doesn't need to be risking himself meeting you – how often was it? – and if rumors start and spread –"

"Gwaine and I are very careful," Merlin protested.

"Be more careful," Arthur ordered. "I won't involve Guinevere, but perhaps Elyan would be willing to… liaise." Merlin couldn't help chuckling at Arthur's choice of term, coloring the reality legal. "Wear that cloak," Arthur added. "I don't care if its summer and looks odd, better for folks to see an odd stranger than – _you_. Or even start talking, they've seen a ghost."

"I know, and I have been," Merlin protested.

"Is that why you don't wear your neckerchiefs anymore," Arthur said, starting walking again, to cross the clearing in a slow saunter.

Merlin gave him a look of vexation. "I miss those," he said. "Do you know how handy they are for a dozen reasons? My neck is _cold_ –"

"You're sweating, Merlin," Arthur pointed out with a smirk.

"But they're too distinctive," he finished with a sigh. "It's the last thing I want, too – knights investigating rumors. I don't care to be chased like a deer on one of your hunts."

Arthur made a noncommittal noise and glanced back at the rest, lagging a bit as they crossed the clearing, probably to give the two of them some semblance of privacy; Merlin appreciated that. Especially from Gwaine.

"Will you tell me something?" the prince said, facing forward again.

"If I can." Merlin cringed as the careless response earned him a sharper glance.

"There are things we need to talk about," Arthur said, in his imperious I'm-the-master-you're-not voice. "Things I need to know, things I want you to explain. Stories to tell, Merlin. But… another day. This should be fairly simple…" A pause, as though Arthur wanted to add a joke about how _simple_ Merlin was – and realized he couldn't, really. Not anymore – jokes, maybe, but not about simplicity. "In the wood, two days ago. When we'd stopped to camp, and I came looking for you."

Almost his heart had stopped. Merlin hadn't put much effort into avoiding notice, following them – it wasn't a patrol he was shadowing, alert and intently studying all surroundings for signs of bandits and thieves, attack and ambush. He'd forgotten how much more observant Arthur could be than the average knight. And maybe there was a bit of subconscious hope that Arthur would notice him, after all.

"Why did you hesitate?" Arthur continued softly. "You thought I would hate you? That I would be angry enough to… what were you afraid of?"

His reaction, Merlin remembered, had felt very much like when Sir Arrok had first accused him. _Sorcery, sire._ And the knights' blades extended, each ready and authorized to take his life. And that anger blazing in Arthur's eyes – _Is it true_.

He would be pinioned, helpless. Each lie like one of Aerldan's pins driven into his flesh, so the truth would be plain to see, emerging red and relentless. Faults and triumphs, misunderstandings and falsehoods. And Arthur would _see_ him, flayed and vulnerable and with nothing left to hide behind - then turn away in scorn and disgust.

Merlin had lost so much already. Lately, even a part of his body, albeit a very small part. What was he afraid of? Losing Arthur – the man, the friend, not the prince. Their destiny might lie together, but he wasn't sure he wanted to be needed by someone who didn't want him.

"I lied to you," he whispered.

"I told you I understood that," Arthur said. "Everyone lies – I've lied."

"No, but…" Merlin stopped walking, to face Arthur, who stopped as well. The others continued past them – with a curious glance from Gwaine. "I thought, you wouldn't trust me anymore. I thought…" _I thought I'd look in your eyes and see every secret, forever separating us._

And that moment in the castle when Morgause hinted at his part in Morgana's rejection of Camelot, he couldn't remember if Gaius had said, he'd explained that to Arthur already, or not. He'd glanced involuntarily to see if the prince was shocked or enraged, forgetting for a moment that his eyes would betray the gold of magic sustained. And Arthur's expression had been completely closed, as he dealt with the question at hand, the two women, and their escape.

Now that they were approaching Camelot, and everything that would mean to the prince, Merlin couldn't help wondering if Arthur had changed his mind. Re-evaluated the reaction to finding Merlin alive. Even, to finding them all alive and victorious, last night.

"Can I ask you a question?" he blurted, hoping he was still dealing with Arthur, not The Prince. _I decide when we talk, Merlin, I ask the questions._

"Can I stop you?" A corner of Arthur's mouth quirked slightly; it was a good sign, and Merlin plunged on.

"In the castle yesterday, with Morgause –" and oh, hells, he'd taunted her about dragonfire, was that what Arthur meant when he threatened further conversation? "And… my magic." And what a crazy thing to come out of his mouth to Arthur. _My magic._ Yet it felt inexplicably natural. "What were _you_ thinking?"

Four steps they took in Arthur's silence. Five, six.

"You used a shield," the prince said. Almost, it was a question.

"Yes." Merlin's tone echoed Arthur's.

"Six months ago, when you were caught, you disarmed the bandit. Yesterday you did the same with Cenred's men. And you walled them in, so we could escape."

"Yes?" Merlin squinted at Arthur's profile. What was he getting at?

"Was that you, when Leon and I left Ealdor, the wall of fire?" Merlin stopped; so did Arthur, but he didn't turn to look at him, kept his gaze on the rest of the party ten paces ahead of them. "Separating us from our enemies, allowing our escape. And the patrols. You as well?"

"I have done." Merlin hesitated to claim specific credit.

"I have seen magic used as a weapon," Arthur said, and now he was watching Merlin from the corner of his eye. "To attack, to kill. All my life, and I can't remember any other kind. Are you capable of such magic?"

Oh, hells. This also, he'd feared. Arthur deciding to be wary of him – or perhaps thinking of where Merlin might fit in his armory?

"I have done," he repeated. His mouth was dry.

Arthur cocked his head to study Merlin. "You prefer the defense," he said. "You were _happy_ using magic to make that frame and erase our tracks and – clean my damn shirt."

 _And start the fire_ , Merlin didn't say. "Yes?"

The smile would not be denied, even as Arthur snorted gently. Merlin flinched – just slightly – as the prince took a firm grip of his shoulder. "You lied, and you hid from me," he said. "Your ability, your potential. But when I looked you in the eye –" as he was doing now; Merlin shivered in spite of the heat of the summer day – "when I asked, you told me the truth. _You_ trusted _me_ , finally, with your truth and your secrets. With your magic. I know what it cost you – shut up, Merlin, just listen – and I want you to know I value that. It won't always be easy – for you, for me, right now, in the future –"

"I wouldn't know what to do with _easy_ ," Merlin said lightly. "Neither would you."

Arthur made a grimace of agreement.

"Patrol," Gwaine said, passing Elyan on Arthur's horse to bring the second white mare for Arthur to ride. He glanced down reflexively at Morgana on the traveling-frame before coming to them. "Arthur. Good to fight with you again. Don't go on any quests without me, yeah?"

He shook back his hair, grinning, and clasped the prince's hand as he passed over the mare's reins, before retreating back into the trees to wait for Merlin, just on the edge of sight. They had a few more minutes, though, the patrol would not see them behind the three horses, would not have any reason to follow or suspect when he turned away.

"And that's what I have to deal with every day," Merlin sighed, grinning up at Gwen, beside Elyan on her white mare, but turned in the saddle to look at them.

"I'm so sorry for you," Arthur drawled, only half-serious.

Merlin bumped his shoulder. "You were worse."

Over Arthur's sputtered mock-outrage, Gwen said, "He's been good for you, Merlin. You've been good for each other, I think."

He went around beside her horse and she bent down to hug him around his shoulders. He patted her back. "Keep him on his toes for me," he murmured, and didn't have to say the name of who he meant.  
She chuckled, smiling. "Knowing you're alive will make all the difference," she predicted. "Merlin, I know it isn't safe for you to come into the lower town, but if you ever need anything –"

"Anything," Elyan echoed, with a fond warning glance at his sister. "I'll bring it to you."

Merlin nodded, and Gwen added, "Maybe, if I help Gaius out, gathering herbs and plants he needs…"

"Of course," Merlin said, warming on the inside at the thought of occasionally sharing the duty – and the gossip, likely as not. He turned to Arthur, who hadn't yet mounted. "I'll be around," he promised. Knowing that Arthur knew – even better, that he accepted – made every privation worth it. The hope of it always had, after all, hadn't it?

"I better not see you," Arthur said, lightly teasing.

He held out his hand; Merlin cringed at the thought of the prince's firm grip around the hand with two fingers broken six weeks ago – healed, but still sensitive. So instead – greatly daring – he held out his arms and moved closer. And Arthur allowed him the more personal salute – even, closed his arms around Merlin. However briefly.

"Not unless you come for me," Merlin said.

"Til then," Arthur told him, turning and mounting the mare, as Merlin stepped back.

The prince gathered his reins, looking past Gwen and Elyan prompting their own mounts into forward movement again, and the first red cloaks of the patrol flickered into view through the trees as the prince followed the siblings. They were fifteen paces away when Merlin heard Gwen say over her shoulder to Arthur, "It's Leon."

Arthur turned a moment later – and a wry grin broke out when he saw Merlin still watching.

Merlin leaned into the trunk of a tree so his figure would draw no attention, and watched his three companions meet the patrol and absorb into them to return to Camelot with the injured Lady Morgana. Arthur lingered a moment, and Merlin recognized Sir Leon as the leader of the patrol; he wondered if Arthur would tell him the made-up story, or the truth.

Over Arthur's shoulder, Leon looked up suddenly – right at Merlin. And he thought, _Leon knows_. He'd recognized Merlin.

Merlin gave the knight a tentative, half-apologetic wave. Leon – moving like a man in a dream – lifted his hand to return the gesture. He could ask Arthur, or he could simply believe whatever allowed him to sleep best at night – a ghost who forgave, or an ally who lived.

Gwaine moved up beside Merlin to sling one arm over his shoulders. "I heard Arthur recommending new quarters for us," he said conversationally. "D'you want to take a wander that direction, check out these ruins?"

Merlin watched a moment more as the riders disappeared into the trees. _Til next time_. He turned his head to meet Gwaine's rakish grin.

The other man added contemplatively, "Always fancied living in a castle."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gaius murmured as he poked at the cut on Arthur's chest. Rubbed the residue of the paste Merlin had applied between his fingers, sniffed it, hummed in approbation.

"It was properly done," Arthur said, half-question and half-statement, and not entirely referring to his wound.

He'd given the old physician a short version of the truth upon their arrival. After Sir Leon and Sir Brenner had gently deposited Morgana in her current resting place; the rough frame was discarded in a long low bundle on the far side of the bed awaiting disposal. Now Arthur, shirtless and half-sitting on a corner of Gaius' worktable, watched over the old man's stooped shoulder to the girl occupying the patient's bed. And the girl who sat beside her. There was nothing for Guinevere to do, save squeeze drops of water past Morgana's lips - mostly to give her something to do, not because the patient needed it.

"He is improving," Gaius allowed, not having to say the name any more than Arthur did. They hadn't yet addressed the issue of _you knew_ ; it wasn't the time for it. And Arthur found it wasn't that important, after all. "There is no sign of infection, I advise you to leave this open for a while. I'm sure you want to make yourself comfortable after your trip, sire, but…" He retreated a step, turning toward the patient's bed, and Arthur understood.

He might not have the time. He swallowed, his throat feeling dry and tight, though the decision was made and he stood by it still; though it had been more than a day he and Guinevere had to adjust to the possibility – the inevitability, they were now told – it still wasn't easy.

Arthur sighed, as the physician shuffled back to the bedside, putting a hand on Guinevere's shoulder. She glanced up, then they both surveyed Morgana; and he saw, in a flash of rightness, how things would change. Gwen's mistress would need her no longer, but Gaius would. It was like matching Elyan to the forge – worker to need.

And she would go to the forest, harvesting for the physician's needs like he'd heard her suggest to their friend. And maybe a hooded figure would materialize to contribute or accompany… and maybe Arthur himself might happen upon either, on a casual ride.

His whimsical thought was interrupted when the door slammed into the wall and the space was filled with the person of the king. Black-clad, his twin pendants swinging on his chest indicative of his swift trip to these chambers. Pale, his gray hair the slightest bit disheveled, as though he'd run his fingers through it unaware.

"Gaius!" he exclaimed. "I just received word – it's true then, Morgana was injured on her journey?" He strode into the room – completely oblivious to Arthur, quiet in the corner adjacent to the door.

Guinevere was on her feet, hands folded, head down – but eyes alert. A quick jerk of the king's head was order enough; she curtsied to Uther, glanced at Gaius as she passed – sent her heart in a single look at Arthur as she left the chamber, closing the door quietly behind her. Uther sank to the chair the maid had just vacated, leaning over Morgana to gather her hand in his and search her face.

"What happened, Gaius?" he said, and Arthur had never heard his father so quietly devastated. His heart pinched on the lie.

"She fell, my lord, and struck her head on a stone," Gaius said, a calm and supportive presence at the head of the patient's cot. "I understand she's been unconscious ever since."

"Can nothing be done for her?" the king demanded.

"This is beyond my power to heal," Gaius admitted. "You must prepare yourself, my lord; it is a consolation that she feels no pain, at least."

"No, I cannot lose her!" Uther said, his voice low, but intense enough to carry in the stillness of the room. "Gaius, you _must_ do… _something_."

"My lord, if it was in my power –"

Uther raised his head, shoulders and body hard with tension. "Your _power_ , Gaius, exactly. There must be… some arcane lore, some… outdated procedure, which might have effect."

The old man stared at his king, one eyebrow raised. Arthur found his own breathing quickened – was his father saying what he thought he was saying? Impossible, and yet…

Gaius spoke slowly, as if determined not to misunderstand, on a topic which was generally considered treasonous. "You ask for…"

"Magic."

Arthur shuddered involuntarily. And reached for his shirt, pulling it on despite Gaius' warning. But so quietly he did not disturb the conversation between the two older men. Friends – a king and his former sorcerer. Anger he felt, but banked it down – not forgotten, just delayed.

"There is nothing," Gaius said, very gently. "If there was an incantation to heal such a wound, it would take a power possessed by – two or three, maybe, in the entire five kingdoms. It cannot be done, sire, though it grieves me to have to tell you so."

"You don't understand," Uther said, shaking his head in denial, still. "She is… she's…"

Arthur straightened from the table, purposefully pushing against it so that vessels and equipment clinked together. Gaius looked up, unsurprised, but the king flinched and whirled, his expression of open grief and desperation closing off.

Almost, to anger. The king straightened regally, without rising, and his eyes snapped. "What happened, Arthur?"

"We'd gone a day's journey," Arthur said evenly. "Morgana's horse spooked – a snake in the grass. She fell, and struck her head on a stone. We returned immediately, and with as much haste as I felt was wise, under the circumstances."

"An accident." Uther gave a harsh, despairing laugh. "To finally have her back – and she seemed much happier, didn't she, Gaius? Much more content to be in Camelot than ever before. A year's dangers she faced alone – and this? A snake, a horse, a stone, it's –"

Gaius' attention shifted to the patient with an abrupt absorption of serious focus that the king cut himself off, and Arthur found himself at the foot of the bed before realizing he'd made a single move. Morgana's skin was green-pale, her lips bloodless and parted slightly. Her inhalation took three heartbeats to accomplish, her exhale evident only by the movement of her chest under the light blanket.

Pause. Nothing.

Arthur found his vision blurred by tears, suddenly, and he could mourn the girl, the friend, she had been. He whispered, "I'm sorry, Morgana. I'm so sorry."

Imperfect was their world, and the people in it. He couldn't understand why she'd lost her way – or had chosen to leave it – but consequences could not be forever avoided by any one of them. Consequence or accident or fate.

His father released a single sob, leaned forward, and kissed her white brow. "I promised to keep you safe," he whispered. And Arthur caught the glitter of a tear on his father's cheek – when was the last time he saw that? Ever?

"You did the best you could, sire," Gaius murmured, hand on the king's shoulder. "Such things are often beyond our control. Her father would understand."

Uther sobbed again, and Arthur retreated. The pain in his chest had nothing to do with the cut in his skin; never before had he felt the weight of responsibility his position had placed on him from birth. The right to privilege and pleasure he'd arrogantly assumed, years ago, felt pale compensation now, for the reality of a king's decisions. This one, he thought, would stay with him forever.

Arthur left the physician's chambers, but didn't go far. Leaning against the wall on the stair, he waited. The king would not remain – could not remain – forever, and Arthur felt it a duty of sorts to be with his father, unless and until Uther no longer required it.

As volatile as their relationship always seemed to Arthur – as readily as Morgana seemed to have discarded it – he knew his father's feelings were deep and genuine. The grief was real – but _pure_ , in a way that would not have been possible, had Uther known the truth about Morgana.

A distant thought brushed its irony past him with a sour tang – for sure the king would not re-evaluate his beliefs on the subjects of magic and the law, to hear the truth after her death, the way Arthur had done after Merlin's execution. No; this secret, kept by a trusted few, would be buried with Morgana. And Arthur would do his utmost to make the girl she had been, proud of the man and king he would become.

"Arthur."

He glanced up as the king closed Gaius's door behind him, slowly and securely. He looked old, in that minute, old and tired. But it would have been far worse, to leave him to discover his ward's betrayal, and the motivation for it.

Uther said nothing more, and walked with ponderous step and bowed head, but Arthur followed him anyway – to his chamber, where he paused but didn't quite meet Arthur's eyes. "We will speak later."

Arthur clenched his fists as his father's chamber door shut between them, but made his way calmly back to his own room.

Hot water and fresh food waited, though not Orryn. Which he appreciated. Merlin had ministered best with his presence; Orryn seemed to do so with his absence.

Arthur, washed, changed, ate. He also thought.

Grief he could understand, and the anger and guilt that seemed often to accompany it. But the irrationality…

His father had essentially blamed a force of nature for his mother's death; something like declaring war on water, if she'd drowned. The ban had shaped the lives of an entire generation of his people in ways Arthur was only beginning to grasp. Deaths and fear and misunderstanding and mistrust and retaliation and loss.

And yet, had one sorcerer not fled to a remote village, the world might never have known Merlin, who was the exact opposite – life and hope and trust and generosity.

As Arthur stood at the window, he could not help comparing this day to one six weeks ago. The sun sank, and the people gathered, and there was irony that they held aloft lit candles in the courtyard, holding vigil for their lost lady. A far gentler farewell in flame than Merlin had received – though Arthur could hope that one day, Merlin might be welcomed back…

The disparity in upbringing and status between Merlin and Morgana – palace darling and village outcast – was as great as that between their places in the king's estimation. Uther would no more believe in Morgana's treacherous betrayal than he would in Merlin's loyal sacrifice; Arthur could only think that destiny had a greater sense of fairness than Uther Pendragon.

But it all came back to magic in the end, didn't it? Merlin had been executed for using it to save the prince's life – and not two months later, Uther was willing to commit nearly the same crime, to save Morgana's. Deserving or not, beloved or not, if the king could not abide by his own laws, perhaps those laws needed reassessment.

"My lord."

Arthur turned from the window, startled at the gloom of his chambers, and the voice of his new manservant. "What is it?"

"The king has requested you attend him," Orryn said, with a slight bow. "It is a few hours yet, until the… interment, but… he wishes to speak with you before the ceremony, sire."

"Thank you," Arthur said absently. He didn't immediately move to leave – but neither did Orryn. "There was something else?"

"I only wanted to say – I'm very sorry for your loss. The lady – will be missed by many."

Arthur stared at the curly-haired servant. This was the second time in two months he'd spoken with genuine feeling rather than a response appropriate to his station. Maybe there was hope here, too. He repeated, "Thank you." Orryn inclined his head respectfully, and this time Arthur strode from the room, aware that the servant trailed him at a deferential distance.

Halfway to the king's chamber, Arthur rounded a corner to find Guinevere approaching from the other direction. She had washed and changed as well, though judging from her expression and bearing – as well as the fact that she was clearly coming from Morgana's chambers – she'd spent some time in the sort of personal organization he'd once cringed to think of Gaius performing in Merlin's tiny room with his few belongings. It made his heart hurt to see her grief – like his, for the friend Morgana had been, though further in the past that most would ever realize – and knew he'd have to tell her someday, of his decision not to seek possible healing for her fatal injury.

Guinevere kept her eyes down as they came close, and spread her skirts in a little curtsy for her prince – and would have passed him by. Arthur stopped her, drawing her gently against his side with one arm. She didn't embrace him fully as she'd done at times in the past, only flattening one hand on his stomach and the other on his back, but she nestled her cheek in the hollow of his shoulder, and he dared kiss her temple.

If Orryn was to be his manservant, there were certain truths he was going to find out. Already Arthur knew the man could be discreet – rumors would not originate with him, merely because he did not feel it his business to interfere in the prince's life and choices.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said into the fragrance of her black hair.

She pressed closer for a brief instant. "Me, too." Then gently she disengaged, and each continued on their way; he felt stronger and calmer at once for the knowledge of her support – also a reminder that he had other friends fully as supportive of him in the difficulties of royal life.

Uther's room was nearly as dim as Arthur's had been – though Arthur guessed it was more deliberate. As if the king had been holding personal vigil. He stood by the window, much as Arthur himself had done – briefly and disconnectedly he wondered if his father was counting the candles lit for his ward – and didn't turn or speak at Arthur's entrance.

Arthur paused, studying his father in profile, feeling as always a mix of emotion. Longing and impatience.

"I heard you," he said into the silence of the room. Keeping his voice even, respecting his father's grief – genuine though blind. "In Gaius' chamber. You would have had him use magic to save her life." He bit his tongue on the accusation, _and condemned Merlin for doing so, for me._ His former manservant was not going to be a good example for him to give Uther. Ever.

"You don't understand, Arthur." The king exhaled.

"I don't understand what?" Arthur said, taking two steps closer. "That you were willing to break the law for your own purposes?" _And for someone that didn't deserve it? wouldn't thank you for it? evidently hated you…_ Though if Morgana had chosen to be more honest, Uther might have been more open to changing, rather than breaking, that particular law…

"It is my law to break." Uther's voice did not sound as harsh as Arthur expected. "To make an exception."

"But you would have Gaius expose himself to the corruption of magic?" he dared, watching the king closely. "You'd have him risk his soul… or perhaps you don't believe in that precept as I always thought? Or just not when it comes to someone you know."

"Gaius is a good man," Uther said. Still with more disinterest than heat – and Arthur saw an opportunity to argue that there might be more such, among magic-users; another day, hopefully. "I trust his discretion…" He turned from the window. "Or is it that you don't believe what I've taught you any longer?"

"No," Arthur said. "I don't. To believe that all magic is evil and irreversibly corruptive is both illogical and untenable." Which meant, there was magic that was good as well – again, that could be argued another day. Right now, on this day of loss, he only wanted to talk to his father.

"You wish to challenge me?" Uther said, narrowing his eyes. Red-rimmed, and he looked exhausted – pity touched Arthur, calming a temper that might otherwise have been roused by his own _grief-anger-guilt_. "Over magic?"

Arthur shifted his weight, tempted; but he had to leave Morgana's magic out of the conversation, now and forever. The damage her choices had wrought; the damage Uther's choices had wrought.

"If Gaius had known and performed the magic to save her, would you have rewarded him with a pyre and execution?" he said, pointing down to the courtyard, lit with vigil-candles.

"Of course not," Uther exclaimed. "Is this about your servant we executed? Arthur that was weeks ago –"

"The passing of time does not right a wrong," Arthur said. "You said Gaius was a good man, you trusted him. Well, Merlin… I could say the same about him. I do not believe magic is evil; it can be used for constructive, beneficial purposes – more than that, it ought to be. Those who have the ability to use magic ought to be allowed the choice and –"

"Arthur, you speak not only treason but heresy," Uther snapped. "Tonight of all nights I will pardon you, but in the future if you dare to –"

"I of all people should be able to come to you for a compromise!" Arthur burst out, unable to contain the mix of emotion any longer. "Not as your son, but as your _heir_ , because it is not good for a king-in-training, or for the people he will someday lead, if he sits on his hands and bites his tongue on a disagreement where the law he will someday uphold is concerned. If I cannot question justice or petition for mercy to your face, for the love of Camelot I _will_ do so behind your back!"

He steadied his breathing, straightened his shoulders, and tried to calm himself. His father only stared, as if he saw a stranger.

"Father, when you were ill and Camelot was attacked, I was forced to contemplate the very real possibility of my reign as king beginning far sooner and more suddenly than either of us want." He was tired, himself, tired of trying to meet expectations and feeling a constant disappointment, if not outright failure. "For years, all I wanted was to make you proud. To satisfy what you wanted of me. Now I see my life is more than that. Years from now, when I wear your crown, I will not be you. I will not be exactly what you tried to make me. I will be as close to what this kingdom needs as it is possible for me to become. And I make no apology to any man, for that."

And that was it, probably. Uther had never taken well to insubordination of any kind, or even initiative, however respectfully felt or voiced. Almost, Arthur volunteered to walk himself to the cells to cool his heels, because that would surely be the –

"You're right."

Arthur stopped himself from looking around to see who else had spoken, even though he'd watched his father's lips move. The tone was all wrong for Uther, too. The king stepped closer – cautiously, as if he didn't know quite what to expect from Arthur anymore. Reached out his hand and laid it on Arthur's shoulder.

"I've trusted you to uphold our laws. I've trusted you to train the men to enforce them. I've raised you to understand and carry the responsibilities of kingship, when I am gone. Slow or sudden, soon or years hence…" His grip on Arthur's shoulder pulled him closer, and he stood in something like mild shock as his father embraced him. "You are all I have left," Uther breathed. "You aren't a boy any longer. Kingdoms have split in civil war and chaos, when the king and his heir disagreed –"

"Father, I would never –" Arthur protested, thinking uncomfortably of Leon's question, how far would he go, to save Merlin's life.

Uther continued as if he hadn't interrupted. "And I don't want to lose you. I suppose that means I shall have to listen to you, more than I have done."

Arthur heard Merlin's voice in memory. _You must listen as well as you fight_ …

His father released him.

Listen didn't mean agree. The king's word would still be law. But Arthur felt like something had shifted between them. Perhaps when the question of sorcery was raised in the future – with Morgause alive and mourning her sister, that was a given – compromise would be possible.

"I am truly sorry, for what happened to Morgana," Arthur said. _For what happened to my mother…_

Uther nodded, and sighed. "Don't blame yourself," he said. "It was an accident."

For one of those deaths, it was true. Arthur wished his father had been able to say that, twenty-four years ago, but… the past couldn't be changed, but the future – the future was wide open.

"Come, son," Uther added, with heavy but not uncontrolled grief, moving for the door. "Let's lay her to rest."

 **A/N: I'm going on a week's vacation starting Saturday, but I'll probably get the epilogue out before I leave. After that… idk. I'll put a note on the epilogue, probably. Thanks to everyone who's read/reviewed/etc. I've been overwhelmed by the reader comments for this story!**

Kirsten: Thanks, glad you liked the chapters! Finale and wind-down…

DieHardShipper: Glad you 'like' that one detail of Merlin's torture. Of course there are myriads of scar-fics, and I've read a couple that have Merlin suffering some more permanent crippling. I wanted to do something in-between. Something that wasn't going to impair his abilities, really at all, something that wasn't in-your-face noticeable, but not really something you can hide, either. Not something that Merlin's going to be super-self-conscious about, because he's not ashamed of how he got it; to make Arthur feel even worse, and not really something that's Arthur's fault, either, though he can't help but feel a bit guilty. A badge of honor, exactly like you said!


	19. Epilogue: Ten Months Later

**Epilogue: Ten Months Later**

The ruined castle of the ancient kings made quite a cozy home. Remote enough they didn't have to worry about notice being taken, rumors starting – yet not too far from Camelot.

The main room had an enormous hearth – and clear chimney, which was more important – a great round table, and several sturdy chairs. Through the winter they'd slept in pallets on the floor by the fire, but now that the weather was warming, Gwaine was talking about bed-frames and mattresses.

Though, Merlin privately thought, if Gwaine had his way, they'd go into business for themselves - setting in a store of wine and ale and hiring several pretty, willing maids and the whole place would be more like a tavern than an outlaws' hide-away.

He had discovered a stairway that led to a series of smaller rooms adjacent to the main chamber, a level up. The steps were partially crumbled, but Percival – who had some training in stone-masonry – claimed it was secure. There was talk of fitting the upper chambers for private bedrooms, but no one was really keen on the cleaning, so it hadn't been done.

Except for this one. Which wasn't really a bed-chamber, as it had no bed, but it was where Merlin kept his things. He glanced up from the book open on his lap, his chair tipped on its back two legs in the corner – where a great crack in the stone wall opened the room to the main chamber below, another feature Merlin preferred.

A dozen or so books, a three-legged table supporting a collection of chipped crockery. Twine strung on the wall where he could pin drying herbs. A home, even if temporary. How temporary, they didn't really discuss.

Everyone seemed content, surprisingly enough. Lancelot and Gwaine got along, after a fashion – Gwaine teased and Lancelot endured, and it worked, though they probably wouldn't have stayed comrades long if it had been just the two of them. Percival helped – he was quiet and serious most of the time, but with a streak of rare humor to answer Gwaine back. He was also the only one – aside from Elyan and Gwen, but their regular work kept them busy – able to come and go freely. Just over five months, it had been, since the two had joined Merlin and Gwaine. And it definitely helped, especially through the winter, to be able to barter for their supplies openly, or purchase them outright.

Merlin glanced through the crack in the wall, down to the hearth area, where the other three were already asleep, long vertical blanket-wrapped lumps. He found he was wakeful, tonight. _Gwillam of Cambria_ was keeping him company, the dusty pages crumbling at the edges, flaking over his trousers; the old healer had definitely gone a bit crazy at the end, but the reading made for good diversion.

It was Arthur's birthday.

Merlin didn't think the others knew – it wouldn't mean anything to them, anyway. But it made him feel both melancholy and alert – another year spent successfully keeping his prince alive. An amazing, heart-wrenching year.

This night would be a festival, in the citadel. Feasting and merry-making, noisy and lively and Merlin hoped Orryn was up to the challenge. Because this night meant something to Arthur more than just celebration – and something even darker, to the king his father. The three years he'd been the prince's manservant, both Pendragons had gotten drunk as lords before the night was half over.

Merlin rather wished he was there. To half-carry his chosen master out of the roar of the hall to the quiet of his bedchamber. To be the only pair of ears to hear whatever came out of Arthur's mouth that night, all inhibition gone. Whether he sobbed or ranted or seethed, or spoke truly from the bottom of his soul.

And Merlin would listen – which was all Arthur really needed, at times like those – get him cleaned up and changed and into bed to sleep it off and the next day would be both better and worse. Worse, for the way Arthur felt physically after unusual over-indulgence and his back-tracking emotionally, which resulted in a bit more abuse for Merlin than normal. But better, simply because it wasn't the anniversary of his mother's death any longer, and Merlin knew the vulnerability of his prince, that made the cuffing and insulting _that_ day, almost reasonable.

The door at the far end of the chamber scraped open - startling him so he almost tore the page between his fingers – rough and sudden, and waking the three in their bedrolls in the main chamber. Merlin let his chair tip back to the floor, leaning forward so he could see the moment their unexpected guest came into –

"Where is he?"

The prince. In a midnight-blue cloak over his birthday-feast finery. Pale and stern, Merlin could see from above, as Arthur strode into the chamber. Merlin's heart jumped into his throat, and he let the book fall, leaping for the chamber door and the stair.

"Where is he?" the prince repeated. "Merlin!"

"Arthur, I'm here, what is it?" he said, skidding around the archway at the bottom of the stair. "Is it Gaius? Is it Gwen?"

Arthur met him, shaking his head even as he grasped Merlin's upper arms – his instinctive reaching for support frightened Merlin still further, even as he was reassured on the question of the two he still loved inside Camelot.

"It's my father," Arthur rasped. His eyes were dark, almost desperate.

"What happened?" Gwaine demanded; he and Lancelot approached from the side. Percival headed the other direction, out the door where Arthur had come in.

"Will you come?" Arthur said to Merlin.

A deceptively simple question, and Merlin understood in an instant what his prince was asking.

An emergency beyond Gaius' abilities. Requiring magic, then, to be used on the king who'd banned it on pain of death – and had done his best to visit that penalty on Merlin. The same sentence that hung over Gwaine's head and Lancelot's, should they be captured.

It wasn't simply, _please heal my father_.

But, _are you willing_. To risk, to give, to have things remain so undeservedly hard and dangerous. Not for Uther Pendragon or even the good of the kingdom.

But for Arthur. Who after all loved his father. For Arthur, who otherwise would be orphaned – his parents taken on the same day a quarter-century apart. And his prince knew that, too. Knew he was _asking_ , not _commanding_.

"Percival's getting one of our horses saddled," Merlin told him.

Because the big man, quiet but keenly perceptive, already knew what Arthur hadn't quite dared hope. Of course Merlin would go with Arthur, try anything his prince asked of him. Consequences be damned.

Arthur's grip tightened, and he gave Merlin a little shake to emphasize his words. "Thank you."

Merlin smiled on the inside, because there it was. Uther and his law didn't matter, living like outlaws in a drafty ruin didn't matter. He was where he belonged, where his prince needed him.

Arthur knew and appreciated. And that was enough.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur resisted the temptation to spur his mount to a faster gait, knowing how foolhardy that was, riding through the forest at midnight. The sound of Merlin's horse behind him helped him control his calm.

 _Hold on, Father, we're coming._

The irony was as sour as the aftertaste of the feast-wine in his mouth - bringing Merlin back to Camelot to save the life of the man who'd condemned him to death. Arthur shook his head to clear it.

"What happened?" Merlin's voice said, closer than he expected, and he flinched – feeling his friend's steadying hand for a moment at his elbow. "Arthur?"

"We had a feast tonight." He couldn't see more of Merlin than a faint outline in the darkness, an occasional flash of moonlight through branches and budding leaves overhead, but the younger man hummed as though Arthur's statement carried no surprise for him.

An incongruous wave of warmth swept through him at the thought that Merlin had remembered it was his birthday, even though he had no duties or responsibilities connected with the day anymore. It made him feel just a bit lighter.

"My father hired a troop of entertainers," Arthur continued, trying to hold on to that warm feeling as another ripple of nausea and dizziness lapped through him. "One knife-thrower attempted assassination." And it occurred to him, he'd have to have the rest of them – already detained – interrogated sometime, their route back-tracked to find out where they'd been, and who might have bribed them to the more nefarious purpose of murder.

Merlin's breath hissed sharply between his teeth, and Arthur felt his hand again, as if he might have missed – and Arthur might have neglected to mention – a wound of his own.

"No – I'm fine," Arthur told him. "It was a trick – a tainted apple." He clenched his teeth and his right fist atop his thigh at the thought that the gleeman had succeeded in that part of their plan so easily, challenging his courage to stand the target for his knives. "He came to my room after the feast. I had dismissed Orryn, he was trying to…"

Arthur swallowed hard. That memory was quite close to another – the blurred sense of reality, the helpless instinct to cooperate, the clumsy way the fuzzy-haired servant handled him and his clothing. He hated that feeling… and once again, someone he was close to was hurt, because he wasn't aware enough to help.

"And then," Merlin said quietly.

"My father came also," Arthur said. "We'd had a disagreement earlier…" Uther wanted to raise that levy, and Arthur opposed the decision. It seemed almost trivial, now. Agonizingly mundane.

In the past nine or ten months, they had been exploring a more mature relationship. Tentatively and not always nicely – Arthur tried to limit his argument with his father's policy and decision to a private venue, and Uther tried to respect his heir's difference of opinion in public.

"I don't even know what he was going to say," Arthur realized. _I'm sorry I was wrong_ or _you are wrong and you will submit._

The first jolt of energy at finding a stranger approaching with a bared blade in such restricted chambers had died so suddenly, leaving Arthur slouched on the floor, hardly able to keep the hilt of his sword in his hand. He'd seen his father fight before, and not too terribly long ago, but it was close quarters and the assassin determined. Even knocked down, with the king standing over him with the sword, he'd managed to produce a knife…

"In any case, my father took the knife intended for me, in the chest," Arthur concluded slowly. "Gaius said the blade might have touched his heart." _And my father is dying_. "He can't do anything, but maybe magic…"

"All right." So casually spoken, Arthur wasn't sure the sorcerer truly understood the situation.

"Merlin, I can't promise – anything. If this works and he wakes and we tell him –" Arthur caught his breath as they emerged from the dark cover of the woods to the moonlight on the citadel.

"Maybe it's better if you didn't," Merlin suggested. "At least that it wasn't me, specifically? But. Arthur, I can't… _promise_ anything, either. Except my best."

Arthur nodded, his throat too tight for words; when his father was healed, then they'd deal with his acceptance of _how_. As they entered the lower town to ride through the streets, deserted now a few hours past midnight, he caught the movement of Merlin lifting the hood of his cloak over his head to conceal his face when they reached their destination.

A druid healer, was the story he and Gaius had agreed on. But the minimal night-guard did not question the prince on his hooded companion; one glance at his face was enough for them to pass silently. Not that many even knew, yet, that the king had been wounded; and concerns about the heir's whereabouts would only be directed to Uther. Though in the morning…

It was eerily familiar, traveling the halls and stairs with Merlin at his side. And yet so surreal at the same time, to do so at night, with the younger man silent and hidden, and Arthur's father…

He burst into the king's bedchamber without knocking, startling both Gaius and Guinevere, on either side of the large bed, into straightening. She tried to stuff a wad of bloodied bandage behind her back, a look of consternation on her face. A pang of sick heartache shot through him at the sight, but he forgot her entirely a moment later as Gaius hurried to intercept him.

"Gaius?" he managed, before his throat closed off.

Something about the physician's demeanor – betraying more concern for Arthur than for Uther, that wasn't right – something about the raised eyebrow, the sternly checked emotion, the deepened lines of stress and exhaustion, told him.

Even before he looked past Gaius to his father's body, covered with the sheet up to his chin. His face framed by the pillow, serene and white, hair brushed back… told him.

He halted, for one earth-shattering moment, and his whole world changed.

Dimly he heard Gaius. _Too much bleeding. Couldn't stop the bleeding. So, so sorry, sire._

Too late.

One step closer, two. To see his father's face more clearly. To hear the last words he'd said, lying there in Arthur's arms – too weak to lift him. Too dazed and horrified to lift his voice sufficiently for the guards… who after all were dead in the corridor by the assassin's hand.

 _It's my time._

 _No, you can't die._

 _I know you will make me proud, as you always have. You will be a great king._

He spoke aloud, "I'm not ready."

No one said, _You have been ready for some time, Arthur._

Distantly he was aware of Guinevere approaching him, hands now empty, taking him in her arms. He felt her shudder with quiet weeping, and understood that it was for the sake of her love for him.

But in an odd way, it felt like someone else.

Standing there. Someone else, lying in the bed. Because no one was lying in the bed; his father was commanding, authoritative, the weight of his presence palpable, undeniable.

Gone. Not here. Somewhere… else.

Arthur realized that Gaius no longer stood in front of him. Guinevere had released him and retreated past the edge of his vision. His feet moved, carrying him to the chair at the bedside, and then no further.

He breathed, and time passed, and the candles flickered. But nothing changed.

His father was gone. He was an orphan; that thought didn't frighten him as it had as a child.

He was free, but as a boat cast adrift.

And at the same time, locked finally into the responsibility of a kingdom. If he made a mistake, there would no one to give him that look of disappointment. Also, no one to say with authority, I'll take care of this.

The room was still. The night was black. He was alone.

"There were things I should have said – I wanted to say – and never did. I wanted to be like you. I wanted to make you proud. And then – I was glad I wasn't like you, and I wanted to force you to recognize that. I wanted your respect. And then… I wish we could have been friends, Father. I wish…" So many things.

An echo of last words – _Know this, Arthur, I've always loved you_.

Arthur leaned his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands, leaned his forehead on his fingers. Closed his eyes to make his world smaller than the room. So small, so manageable. But, not so easy to deny entrance to reality.

He wanted to scream, or run away, or throw up. Anything to rid him of the painful lump that swelled and smoldered in his chest, scalded his throat. But it wouldn't change anything. This pain could only be endured, until it consented to recede.

So he endured.

Details occurred to him, things that would need to be done. Dismissed to _someone else can see to that._

 _Are you with Mother now? Are you happy? Are you telling her everything she missed?_

 _Have you finally,_ all the gods send it so _, found peace?_

Perhaps if Morgana was in the same place, they might find reconciliation. And somehow, the rest of those left behind, would have to do the same.

Some time later, realization grew that his back and legs and neck ached – but his face rested on something soft. He blinked his eyes open – they burned and watered in reaction – and his muscles drew him upright in the chair, sore and stiff. He looked at the small pillow near the edge of the bed that now carried the dent of his head and wondered where it had come from.

Someone was opening the curtain behind him. Someone opened the shutter on the window also – deliberately slowly, so the stark contrast of candlelight and darkness faded gradually to a softer glow of dawn.  
Arthur looked as his father's face on the pillow and the events of the previous night – the hilarity of the party, the horror of the attack – seemed remote.

He heard the door, and someone said, "Thank you, Orryn. No, I'll take it from here." A voice that drew his head to turn, though he didn't focus, exactly.

Someone approached the other side of the bed, took gentle hold of the sheet, and pulled it respectfully to cover the king's face. Someone who was missing the last joint of the smallest finger of their left hand. He tried to think about that, but his head felt stuffed with wool.

"Come, Arthur." Someone touched him, a caring touch, urged him up from the chair.

He obeyed; the bed was empty anyway, he had no father. He noticed that his dark blue cloak remained draped over the chair as he stepped away, but he didn't remember unfastening or removing it.

The figure he followed was cloaked, the hood up, but the hand on his elbow felt familiar, and he followed. The corridors were quiet but for their footfalls, the light diffused and dim, but he recognized the door to his chamber and relief cooled the glowing coal in his chest. Inside, the hand left his elbow and he stopped walking, waiting for some other purpose to occur to him.

Soon all decisions would be his; he wanted to delay that for just a little while longer.

Then someone's fingers loosened the ties of his shirt – he dropped his chin to watch; that last left one still shortened. Someone's hands slid the garment up – he raised his arms obediently – and over his head, with a comfortable and familiar expertise. Someone took sponge and cloth and washed him – keeping his trousers dry, no easy task – and he felt refreshed.

Arthur took a deep breath, and then another, and somehow the new air entering his body cleared his mind and made him feel able to face his duty.

He turned his head to watch Merlin deposit cloth and sponge on the tray with the pitcher and basin; there was a second tray containing food, at the other end of the table. The younger man met his eyes as he turned back, positioning a clean shirt for Arthur to put on, and Arthur frowned at the pale shade of skin, the dark brown bruise-like circles under Merlin's blue eyes.

"Have you been here all night?" Stupid question; did he think Merlin had ridden back to the ruins for a few hours of sleep, before sneaking back into the citadel? Arthur gripped the bottom hem of the clean shirt, one of deep blue that was his most comfortable, pulling it over his head, pushing his arms into the sleeves, before Merlin answered.

"I didn't want you to feel that you were alone."

Arthur remembered that Merlin's mother had told him, his young friend had found his own father for only a few days before that man's death. He resolved that was going to be a story he asked for. Soon; when they both felt ready to deal with that. He reached out to put his hand on Merlin's shoulder. "You're a loyal friend, Merlin. Thank you."

It occurred to him, then, that Merlin had spent years preparing him for the day… and for the day he'd rule the kingdom. He wanted to express his gratitude, he wanted to share the time and the feeling of companionship.

"You hungry?" he said, gesturing to the tray of food before moving toward his chair.

"Starving," Merlin admitted, trailing him more hesitantly. But instead of sitting in the chair Arthur shifted crooked in invitation, the younger man gave him a beautiful smile, if a bit weary. And turned to gather up the cloak he'd laid aside to act as Arthur's servant.

"Where are you going?" Arthur said, genuinely confused.

"I'm an outlaw, remember?" Merlin said. "As much as I'd like to stay… I can't. It's going to be interesting getting out of here without being recognized, though."

"No," Arthur said. "No, you're not. Not anymore."

The burden of kingship that felt heavy on his neck and shoulders like a cart-horse's collar lifted, just slightly, at the realization that he could now offer his friend, _his_ freedom. And Gwaine, and Lancelot, eventually. It occurred to him that he didn't feel alone, and didn't have to maybe ever again.

"Stay," he added. "This is where you belong."

Merlin's face lit up with a sudden and fierce joy that made his eyes glisten, briefly reflecting the fire of sunrise from the window. "In Camelot," he said, almost a question. "At your side."

"Of course," Arthur said. "Come and eat with me. It's a new day; we need to be ready for it."

Merlin's grin was brilliant, and he used the phrase with a sincerity that both shattered and reinforced Arthur's spirit. "Yes, my lord."

 **A/N: Okay, readers, that's a wrap! The end of the story! Thank you all so much for reading/reviewing! No sequel, it would just be, Arthur bringing magic back and giving Merlin a permanent position at court – and romance and adventure for everyone… Yay golden age!**

 **Although. I have been asked, and I've hinted I might, add chapters to fill in the episodes between "Castle of Fyrien", and this one "The Wicked Day". I don't believe it would be the same sort of in-depth re-writing I did for my "Towers" series in "The More Things Change". But I need to know if enough people are interested to glance literarily at how those eps would fit into this story, to make that writing worthwhile… I'm leaving on a week's vacation Friday morning, so I wouldn't post any of that material until my return anyway, but – let me know?**

 **Also, some dialogue from ep.4.3 "The Wicked Day".**


	20. The Eye of the Phoenix

**A/N: I totally wrote this in "Kingdom Games" so I did my best not to sound redundant… These 'rewrites' are going to be more a collection of obviously-changed scenes, rather than any attempt at a coherent internal story-line. Hopefully no one is too lost…**

Kirsten: Thanks for your reviews on previous chapters! I'm glad you liked the 'ending' – the homecoming as well as Arthur&Merlin after Uther's death.

 **Episode 3.8 "The Eye of the Phoenix"**

Dawn was past but it was hard to know it, under an overcast sky and the thick leaf canopy of midsummer.

Yesterday had been the sort of rain-and-sunshine mix that brought all the birds out to flit and splash and flutter – quite like the sidhe, but with innocent beauty and fun – and promised more rain today. Merlin had walked out of sight of the castle he and Gwaine had tentatively claimed; he'd woken early and restless, in spite of the weather. Gwaine had grumbled and rolled, muttering something about, "Wait f'r me," that Merlin had disregarded.

A twig-crack and leaf-rustle caught his attention – there'd been no indication that the site was frequented by people for a couple of leagues in any direction, but if Arthur knew about it then it was always a possibility that –

Merlin relaxed, watching the prince ride into view on the gelding he favored for trips expected to be long and dangerous. He wore chainmail and a half-grin; he'd probably seen Merlin first.

"What brings you out this direction?" Merlin called. Yesterday's rain dripped and trickled all around, and Arthur waited to respond until he was closer.

"A quest," he said. "And a question."

"Where to?" Merlin said immediately, already plotting in his mind – wake Gwaine, pack their things, enough for a week probably, he can saddle the horses he won last week at that - "Oh. _Oh_. It's your _quest_ , quest."

Normally done to coincide with a knight's first-oath ceremony, Arthur's had been delayed by royal appointment. Why now, of all times, Merlin wondered, but it wasn't really something he could ask.

"When was your vigil?" He felt a pang of regret that he hadn't been the one to help his prince prepare, for that night of nights, to wait with him and for him.

"Two nights ago," Arthur answered, as the gelding picked a lazy walking way between the trees to approach Merlin obliquely. "It was – not what I expected."

"No?"

"It was like… magic." Arthur gave him a swift but sharp glance, and he cringed.

Nearly three weeks it had been, since they'd parted after the rescue of Gwen's brother. He felt that there was still quite a bit of awkwardness for the two of them to work through, regarding the magic – Arthur's perception, and familiarity, and comfort level with it, when _not_ fighting or running for his life.

"Nothing to do with me," he said.

Arthur made a noncommittal noise. "It was very clear, almost like a message. I'm going to the Perilous Lands, where ruled the Fisher King. I'm to bring back his trident."

"It sounds… perilous," Merlin offered, frowning. He hated not being _in_ Camelot, and wondered, if magic _had_ played a part in Arthur's decision, whether it was of the benign or malevolent sort.

"It's wretched," a new voice offered, and neither of them was too startled when Gwaine stepped forward, stretching and ruffling his fingers through his hair. "I've heard of it; there's supposed to be a curse on it. A wounded king, forever dying but never dead, and his land so linked to him that it's the same."

Merlin grimaced – forever dying and never dead sounded sheer hell. Or maybe, worse than hell.

"It's north of Camelot, I thought?" Gwaine concluded, and Merlin looked back up at Arthur as the gelding drew close enough for him to reach out and touch the glossy brown flank. "What brings you… here… first…"

Time seemed to slow, the words to fade as though water filled Merlin's ears – and he found himself staring inexplicably at the brown leather of Arthur's saddle-pack, just behind his left thigh.

"What's in there?" he interrupted Arthur, pointing like a child.

"As I was already saying," the prince said, pretending to be offended at the rudeness, "I was stopped in the lower town this morning as I was riding out. An old woman – a widow, I think, she was in mourning-black – gave me this piece for luck on my quest." He untied the mouth of the bag and reached in.

"Thought your quest was supposed to stay secret," Gwaine said, coming closer to the gelding's head. "Your safety, and accomplishing it alone, sort of thing –"

It was a silver cuff, an inch and a half wide, but not a full circle, engraved and set with a curiously luminous amber half-sphere that radiated–

"Magic, I think," Arthur said. "That was my question. I don't think she was a druid, but I thought… well, I shouldn't assume all magic-users are evil sorceresses hell-bent on taking my life."

"But in this case…" Merlin was glad the prince was wearing gloves; he wasn't, or he'd have snatched it away already. "For luck, is that what she said?" Beyond the amber glow – that reminded him of the ring Morgause had given Morgana at the entrance to the labyrinth at Fyrien, which in turn reminded him of the cuff the blonde witch had given her sister to aid with her nightmares - the impression of Arthur nodding. " _Bad_ luck." Arthur sighed and his shoulders slumped a little. "What are you going to do with it?" Merlin added. "You can't take it with you."

"I can't return to Camelot to put it in the vaults," Arthur said. "There will be questions, and if my father accepts it as a genuine threat –" Merlin heard, _and not just cowardice, leaving off the quest early_ – "there'll be a witch-hunt until that old woman is found."

"If she ever is," Merlin said. Knowing the dangers to innocent people during such a procedure, and the scant likelihood of its success.

"We could keep it here," Gwaine suggested. "At the castle, I mean, there must be hundreds of places to hide it." He reached, flicking his fingers in an imperative sort of request gesture, and Arthur leaned forward in the saddle to hand it to him.

Merlin very nearly used his magic to snatch it from either – but that would have been worse than his bare skin, he thought. "Don't touch it!" he cried. Both of the other two paused, looking at him. He shook his head, repeating, "Don't touch it."

He took hold of Arthur's wrist, where glove met sleeve, and pulled it down for a closer look; Arthur didn't resist. Gwaine drifted to lean over Merlin's shoulder. "What is it?"

"It's not a jewel, it's brighter," Arthur said.

Merlin found it hard to look away from the gold-amber glow to focus on any clue hidden among the engravings on the silver setting. He cocked his head, trying to see past the hungry evil to an impression of –

"Is it a stone at all?" Gwaine said curiously.

Flight and fire and immortality bought at a price.

"A phoenix," he said aloud.

"A what?" Arthur said.

"A firebird," Merlin said, wishing he had access to the library in Camelot, or Gaius' books, or a few of his own. "I think that's its eye, it… burns, and the fire… consumes the m-" almost he said _magic_ , but that wasn't quite right, Arthur didn't have that – "the … life force, of anybody it comes in contact with."

"Bad luck," Gwaine said laconically. "So shall we bury it, or what?"

Merlin didn't like the idea of leaving it at the castle, even hidden; they still weren't sure that no one else came around the ruins. And burying it, he felt, would be even worse. The land forever dying and yet never _dead_.

"No, I – I'll take charge of it," he said, trying to conceal both dread and nausea at the thought.

Gwaine reached into his shirt and pulled out the soft leather pouch he normally carried their few coins in, and dropped three silver pieces into his palm before passing him the pouch. "We can keep it in this."

"Thanks," Merlin said, but it was Arthur who stuffed the piece into the pouch… and Gwaine who tied the drawstring to his belt with a cheerful grimace at Merlin. Who found himself disinclined to argue.

"How much of a head start do you want?" Gwaine said, squinting up at the prince.

"What _do_ you mean," Arthur drawled. "I'm meant to complete the quest alone and unaided."

"We have horses now," Merlin volunteered. "So you can travel as quick as you like." And return safely to Camelot the sooner, he added silently.

"You have horses now?" Arthur repeated, sternly, and to Gwaine.

The outlaw grinned, and protested, "They were _won_ , not stolen. I swear."

"Mm hm." Arthur gathered his reins, and turned the gelding's head. "I won't be seeing you," he added in warning.

"Not unless you need us." Merlin lifted his hand in farewell.

Gwaine bumped his shoulder. "No time to waste, us. Let's get going." He sounded almost as excited as Arthur; Merlin grumbled internally until he remembered why Gwaine, a knight's son, might be eager for a knight's quest.

He sighed. "Oh, for the love of… Camelot. Yeah, let's go."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

By the time Arthur reached the bridge and hobbled his gelding to await his return, he was half-convinced his self-appointed guardians hadn't come – or just hadn't caught up – with him, after all.

That, or Gwaine had finally managed to teach his perpetually clumsy former manservant how to move undetected through the woods.

The bridge was not nearly the surprise that its keeper was. At first nowhere to be seen – though the tiny hut was clearly currently inhabited, as shown by skins drying on fencing in good repair, one-person cookpot steaming over low-flickering fire – Arthur's hand stilled at his hidden belt-purse when the strange little man materialized at the corner of fence and bridge-railing.

He had a feeling, if there was a toll required to cross, it wouldn't be paid in coin.

"Who is it that wishes to cross my bridge?"

Arthur hesitated. Anonymity for the sake of safety… "A knight on a quest." And found himself adding, almost involuntarily, "To find the trident of the Fisher King."

The little man was not surprised in the least, which made Arthur uneasy. "Then you must be Courage."

That the word applied to him as a proper name was obvious in the little man's voice. He had not said, _you must be courageous_ , like it was a piece of advice. Feeling that he wasn't as unknown as he thought, Arthur opted for blunter honestly – _yes, actually, I am quite brave, if I do say so myself_? "No. I'm Prince Arthur of Camelot."

The bridgekeeper's smile spread, dividing his face. And goodwill at least showed in his gray eyes, if not humor. "I'm Grettir." He took a bow-legged step forward and reached out a stumpy-fingered hand, which Arthur took reflexively to complete the greeting. "I have to say, you're not as short as I thought you'd be."

Arthur was nonplussed, and did not know quite what to say to that, but the short keeper didn't seem to notice, except to be amused.

"Before I let you pass," he added – and Arthur was oddly convinced that he _could_ stop Arthur, if it occurred to him to do so – "I'll give you a little advice. As Courage, there are two more things you'll need to complete your quest: Strength and Magic."

Again, the personification of the qualities was implied. Well. It wasn't hard to guess what he meant by Magic, and if Grettir anticipated Merlin's arrival, it wasn't such a stretch to believe that he also knew about –

"Gwaine," he said, a bit incredulously. " _Gwaine_ is Strength? You've got to be kidding me."

The over-large head at just above Arthur's knee-height cocked curiously. "You know of whom I speak, already," he said. "And you have accepted their assistance in the past."

"I am," Arthur said deliberately, "alone and unaided."

"Of course you are." Flat, enigmatic smile.

"And, they should be along shortly," Arthur added.

"Their presence is essential if you are to succeed on your quest," Grettir told him. "You would do well not to discount either of them – even now your knight Strength carries a burden in your place. And if you do, the Fisher King's lands may be restored and prosperity may reign again – that is what I wish to see."

Arthur sighed. Apart from his knowledge that those two would insist on coming, and how furious Merlin would be if he had tried to go alone, he supposed his pride could bend to the necessity of company for the sake of a quest that affected the wellbeing of an entire kingdom. He wondered then if his very-clear vision the night he'd spent in vigil had somehow come from this little man. "I will do my best."

"I know." Gray eyes scrutinized him, and the little bridgekeeper shifted aside.

"Thank you for your help," Arthur said politely, stepping onto the stick-and-twine bridge with more confidence than he felt, deliberately _not_ looking over the side to whatever depths it might be spanning.

"One more thing. The Fisher King has waited many years for this day – do not deny him what he wishes."

Arthur turned swiftly enough to set the bridge swaying, but the keeper had vanished as abruptly as he'd appeared. And he hesitated, somehow, to demand answers from the smoky air and dangling bones of the clearing.

After a warily hesitant moment, Arthur continued over the bridge, hand tight on the hilt of the sword at his hip. How much truth was there in the legend? If he was going to find out, he might very well be glad of the company that followed.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Another ruined castle. And, Gwaine expected, if this one was inhabited, it was not by anything so innocent as an outlaw and an executed sorcerer.

"Up I think," Arthur said, leading the way. "The trident isn't going to be stuffed into a closet with the brooms. He'll have kept it close, and in a place where he could look out upon his kingdom."

"You sure?" Gwaine said, trying to breathe without panting; he was exhausted with this whole land and the quest. Once again, he blessed the destiny that had spared him this trial of knighthood – wait, though, he was still on a quest, just someone else's! All the work, and none of the glory – story of his life, right? "You've seen the state of his kingdom."

He followed Arthur anyway, not having any better suggestions. He felt Merlin's eyes on him, but appreciated that the sorcerer didn't ask after his wellbeing. Was his fatigue due to that damn bracelet? Maybe, but what was there to be done about it? Nothing. So, up. Wide arching stairways eventually narrowed to tight spirals as they climbed through the great tower.

"That spell you used on the wyvern," Arthur said without turning, past Gwaine to Merlin in the rear. "That was – unusual."

Merlin murmured something unintelligible and shy.

Gwaine smirked to himself – way too humble, in Gwaine's opinion, when his young friend should get a bit of glory with his hard work - and put in, "Yeah, mate, where'd you learn that one? Didn't sound like your usual magic."

After a moment he realized the sound of Merlin's boots no longer followed theirs; he stopped and then Arthur did, to look back down at their companion. Merlin rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. "Um. Remember the dragonlord?"

Gwaine glanced up to see that the prince did, and sighed. Yet another story to demand of his companion in exile one of these days; he'd thought _those_ fellows all killed off, one by one, by dear old Uther. "Wyvern are distant cousins of dragons," he offered. "Your friend the dragonlord taught you some tricks of the trade?"

"You could say that." Merlin was almost smiling, but there was emotion that Gwaine couldn't place, brimming in his eyes.

"That night," Arthur said. "The great dragon." Gwaine _had_ heard that one. "Balinor told you or taught you something to help?"

"I wanted to tell you."

The silence of ages and enchantments was thick around them. Gwaine began to feel out of place, standing between the two, friends before he'd met either, and wondered if he could be forgiven for sitting down, right on the stairs.

"I couldn't," Merlin added, a husky plea.

"I couldn't understand why you would insist on taking my second sword," Arthur said neutrally. "And going with us to fight the beast. I presume your prior acquaintance alone wasn't enough to persuade him to halt his attacks –"

Prior acquaintance. Gwaine really did need to sit down, now.

"I tried," Merlin said, the desperation sudden and unexpected, the sincerity on his face catching Gwaine's breath in his throat. " _Believe_ me, I tried."

"At the time, I thought you incredibly brave, or entirely insane," Arthur added. A bit of both, Gwaine figured. "But you knew all along –"

"No," Merlin said swiftly. "I hoped, but I didn't know it would work – until it did."

Another moment passed, as the prince scrutinized his secret sorcerer. "There's more, isn't there?" he realized, a heartbeat after Gwaine had guessed the same thing. He opened his mouth, but Arthur beat him to the conclusion also – "Now's not the time."

The prince turned to continue on.

"Um," Merlin said again, still not following. He gestured to the side, off the stairway, as they turned again. "Have a look at this? It looks like a throne room."

Gwaine and then Arthur followed him to the landing they just passed, and the prince halted the sorcerer at the doorway with a hand on his shoulder. "Every man makes mistakes," he said. "We are no strangers to regret. But if you can forgive me, how can I do anything less for you?"

"Even things you don't know about?" Merlin said breathlessly.

"I don't have to know everything to know your loyalty," Arthur said. "Whatever it was, whether you ever tell me or not, I believe you did your best. You did what you could, and no man has a right to ask more than that."

Gwaine registered the small relieved smile on Merlin's face, but his attention was rather focused on the sorcerer's feet.

"Don't move," he cautioned the both of them, and pointed out for Arthur's benefit the subtle grooves in the archway, walls and overhang.

"Ah," the prince said. "Yes." Bracing himself carefully in the entrance of the room, he took a long step through it, then turned to watch Merlin and Gwaine do the same, bypassing whatever trap lay there to protect the room from unwanted invasion.

Inside the room the feeling of occupancy heightened sharply. The hair rose on the back of Gwaine's neck in an instant; no easy thing, as long and thick as it was. Everything was unnaturally still, as if the air itself had stopped moving. Light enough to see, but no direct sunbeams, and Gwaine could believe it hadn't been cleaned at least in three hundred years.

Then Merlin moved. With the sort of reckless totality of focus Gwaine had seen him display, sensing this damn bracelet in Arthur's bag. He stepped across the dusty warped planks of the floor toward the room's only piece of furniture, a great high-backed throne draped with cobwebs. Arthur was close behind, as if he believed he could keep Merlin from harm or trouble by proximity, but when the voice spoke, Gwaine hustled to join them.

"So, Emrys, you are here at last."

The occupant of the Fisher King's tower, Gwaine decided, was a ghost. His skin like parchment, tan and dusty and wrinkled, the webbing as thick over his body and throne as that which covered the skeletons in the labyrinth leading to Fyrien. But his _eyes_ … his eyes were alive.

"No, I'm sorry," Arthur spoke first – _braving_ the ghost's attention, in Gwaine's opinion – but not breaking Merlin's fascination. "My name is Arthur, and this is –"

Merlin put his hand on Arthur's sleeve, exactly as if he was the prince and could command his companions by gesture – and to Gwaine's astonishment, Arthur closed his mouth. Maybe even unaware of it, himself.

"So you are still alive," Merlin said, and it seemed to Gwaine as if he'd _responded_ to the unfamiliar name somehow.

The ghost of a smile on the ghost of a face. "For now." His eyes, golden-brown like the shade of sunlight on a long dusty road, shifted to take in Arthur, and then Gwaine. Who couldn't quite suppress a shudder, but squared his shoulders. And then realized, the old man had probably seen that. "And your friends, Courage and Strength. Without their help, you would not be here."

Arthur cleared his throat, but Merlin's hand was still on his sleeve; he didn't speak. "I know," Merlin said, with gentle humility. "What is it you want from us?"

"I want an end to my suffering."

Gwaine thought of his hasty and half-serious words summarizing the legend. Forever dying… Not a ghost, then. Not quite. In the silence he heard what neither of his companions said, _You want to die_.

The old king's eyes were on Arthur. "I have been waiting all these years for the arrival of a new time – the time of the Once and Future King." A shudder rippled subtly across Arthur's chainmail-clad shoulders, down his back.

Merlin – surprisingly, and yet not – said, "I have heard these words before."

"And you will hear them again." A dusty, wrinkled, whimsical smile, as the words encompassed the three of them.

Gwaine suddenly realized he was standing right in the middle of a legend. Destiny, and legend, and… hells, he could only think how tired he was.

"Your time is dawning," the Fisher King said to the prince. "And my time can finally come to an end. This is why you were brought here." Again, the _you_ seemed to apply to all of them.

"It was you who spoke to me," Arthur said. "You called me here, knowing Merlin and Gwaine would follow…"

"The Fisher King's trident is a noble quest, is it not?" the old man returned, unperturbed. He glanced down to his side; Gwaine shifted to see the dulled gleam of a golden shaft in his dusty ghost fingers, at the side of the throne, just before the trident fell with a muffled clang, released. "You are welcome to it, and the glory it will bring you on your return."

Arthur made no move to claim it, and the old man smiled again, dust sifting down from his hair and crown, mud-colored rather than glowing gold and gem.

"But the real prize is something far greater."

Gwaine's eyes were drawn to the Fisher King's other hand. Perhaps he had overlooked it before, but… the old man held an odd little trinket. A glass vial held in a simple wooden frame – without a speck of dust on it.

"Water from the lake of Avalon," the old man said reverently, and Gwaine almost choked. The lake he'd teased Merlin about swimming or washing in; he felt his face heating, and the weight of the old man's gaze. Amused and tolerant, he hoped he wasn't imagining. "I've kept it safe these years, waiting for the right person to claim it. And that is you." Suddenly the plural became very definitely singular, and very definitely _Merlin_ , who stepped forward, releasing Arthur's sleeve to stretch his hand to the old king. "You are the one chosen."

"What are you talking about?" Merlin said.

"Albion's time of need is near." Once again, the Fisher King's gaze pierced Arthur, then Gwaine. "And in that dark hour you must be strong, for you alone can save her. Your powers are great, but you will need help. And that is what I am giving you." He surrendered the vial with exquisite delicacy to Merlin's hand; Gwaine noticed it was the sorcerer's _left_ hand. "When all seems lost, this will show you the way."

Gwaine wanted to say, _How_? but was apprehensive of drawing that gaze, that centuries-dying attention.

"Thank you," Merlin said only.

"I have given you a gift," the old man added, "now you must give me one in return."

Merlin glanced swiftly, uncertainly at Arthur. The prince didn't seem surprised, but said only, "But we have nothing to give."

Skeletal fingers gripped the throne's arm-rests, and the dusty bulk – too slow and heavy for a ghost – groaned to a hunched standing position. And now, Gwaine found he had drawn that gaze and attention, after all. "I think you do."

His flash of brilliance was somewhat diminished by the fact that both his companions turned to him with the same idea on their faces. _The fire consumes the life-force… what shall we do with it? He wants to die…_

Gwaine untied the little pouch from his belt, and as Arthur took it from his hand, protected from the magic by his gloves, he drew a deep clear breath and felt alive and awake, again. Arthur opened the pouch and removed the cuff – then hesitated.

"If I give you this, you will die," the prince said to the old king. The ancient man smiled an ancient smile, and held out his arm in clear invitation.

Arthur met his eyes – Courage, yes definitely, in Gwaine's opinion – and then gave the Fisher King a solemnly royal salute, bowing his head as one king to another. The parched-earth smile turned almost bright, almost youthful; without raising his head, Arthur reached to place the cuff on the ghost's wrist with reverence.

The air stirred at last, whipping up the dust and cobwebs – momentarily dispersing them entirely to show the old man in velvet robes, gleaming coronet – and the image of the Fisher King fractured and dissipated. A whisper spun with the last of the wind – "Thank you."

Merlin sighed audibly, cradling the frame-protected vial of lakewater. Gwaine tried to think of a joke to break the silence and tension, and couldn't. Arthur watched Merlin a moment, then turned silently to lead them toward the arched doorway of the empty throne room.

"The trident," Gwaine said.

Arthur paused; Merlin bent to retrieve the old king's discarded weapon-symbol, and brought it to his prince, Gwaine following. Arthur delayed, still searching Merlin's face – for what, Gwaine didn't know and didn't dare try to figure out.

"It's what you came for," Merlin said. "Your father will expect –"

The prince's expression closed, just slightly, and he took the trident. Merlin met Gwaine's eyes – puzzled blue – as Arthur turned to stalk from the room, careful at the trip-doorway.

"It's a two-day journey back to Camelot," Gwaine said. "There's time for _later_."

Merlin nodded, understanding and accepting.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur felt the surprise in every gaze that fell on him – servant, noble, knight, commoner – heard the question in every greeting. Brief, because everyone knew his destination, and could read, maybe, in his stride and bearing, that there would be no delay.

And, the sooner he'd passed by, the sooner they could begin to gossip about his singular burden. Perhaps, how swiftly he'd won it – not yet a week since he'd been gone.

He felt the surprise in his father's gaze when he reached the smaller receiving chamber. Relief warring with uncertainty – until the king saw the ancient, though almost unremarkable, weapon in Arthur's hand. Then, the exultation that took over his father's countenance – brushing aside the councilor who, facing away from the door, hadn't yet realized Arthur's arrival – made him feel, conversely, more exhausted.

"Arthur, I don't know what pleases me more… to be in possession of such an artifact… or to know that you have finally proved yourself to be the man I hoped you always would be."

 _Have I. Have I really._ He said, "Thank you, Father."

"I have no doubt that you will one day make a fine king."

Arthur's snort was well-covered by the applause of the court, and he was glad his physical bearing and probably grim expression could be attributed to the rigors of the quest.

Emrys and Avalon had taken precedence in their conversation, over any lingering questions about the dragon. Merlin had been vague and shy and Gwaine impatient but restrained until Arthur was short-tempered and explosive and _done_ with the whole damn occurrence.

Not because it turned out to be more Merlin's quest than his, or because the voice in his vigil had been less-than-completely-forthcoming, or because the rumor of his undertaking had brought out a sorceress to try to kill him with a unique and dangerous relic – somehow just exactly the object the old king needed to finally end his life so that his land could be reborn from its own ashes. Not because he _had_ needed his two friends – Merlin's magic to clarify the danger of the 'lucky' gift, Gwaine's sword to dispatch the one disobedient wyvern – or because of the circumstances that forced them to leave him at the conclusion of the journey. Or because he would now be the recipient – once again – of glory and acclaim he didn't feel like he'd earned.

But because of the foreboding nature of the dying king's words. _Time of need… dark hour… when all seems lost_. Would there ever come a lasting victory? A sustained peace? Would he be fighting all his life for something never quite realized?

Then he turned slightly. Past the king and councilors admiring his fairly meaningless trophy, stood Gaius, clasped hands lost in the wide cuffs of his sleeves, benevolent and patient – and Gwen who looked like she'd just come rushing in. Color high, hand over her heart as she caught her breath, eyes sparkling with the joy of his safe return – and maybe the memory of their farewell kiss?

He smiled and felt his spirits lift.

This was why – the call and the quest and the gift and the sacrifice. The preparation for more danger and dark times. All for the people of Camelot, who after all made sacrifices of their own.

For the love of Camelot.


	21. In the Time of Dragons

**Episode 3.9 "Love in the Time of Dragons"**

Gwaine put his forefinger to his lips, to warn the intruder to silence, as they entered the main chamber of the ruined castle, crossed the dusty floor on stealthy feet toward the young man oblivious to their approach.

Their guest gave in before Gwaine would have.

"Something smells good," the intruder remarked, and Merlin nearly fell in twisting from his crouch by the hearth. His eyes found Gwaine's though, just at their guest's shoulder, and astonishment turned to good-natured chagrin.

"Elyan," Merlin said in relief. "We didn't expect you tonight."

"Sorry if I startled you," the dark-skinned blacksmith apologized. "Gwaine's idea."

"It was not," Gwaine immediately protested, with a grin he knew neither of them would believe, but his dinner was still under Merlin's supervision.

"There's enough to share," Merlin invited. "Only two pheasants –" Gwaine had already made the joke, _too bad there aren't_ three; Merlin glanced at him with a twinkle of memory again – "but they're stuffed with breadcrumbs and sage."

"That's probably what I smelled," Elyan said, following Gwaine's example to drop cross-legged on the wide hearth. The warmth was unnecessary as mid- edged to late-summer, but the sun had set a couple of hours ago, and the proximity to the heat wasn't unpleasant.

"What brings you this far out tonight?" Gwaine asked, as Merlin took a knife to divide portions of the roast fowl.

"The prince asked me to come," Elyan said, quiet and even-tempered as always. "The king has heard reports of a physician offering treatments in the countryside, and he suspects magic."

Gwaine looked up, surprised. On the rare occasion Merlin paid for their petty thievery with healing magic, he was usually so discretely secretive the recipients themselves didn't suspect. He caught Merlin's guilty-thoughtful look.

"Specifically?" the sorcerer said.

"Ah… he mentioned a… boy thrown from a horse," Elyan recalled. "A farmhand mauled by a boar? Apparently hopeless cases, yet each has made a full recovery. According to rumor." Elyan shrugged and Merlin shook his head.

"It wasn't me."

"The prince said there was a new case. Evoric the innkeeper? Gaius was going to investigate, but then apparently denied the use of magic in a way that made Arthur sure it was magic. Arthur asked me to come out here and –"

"Tell us to be careful?" Gwaine guessed.

"Um." The blacksmith shifted uncomfortably. "Actually, he wanted to send you to the northern border, something about Odin's men making trouble. He thinks rumors have spread that he passed through that country on his quest – the trident makes for good gossip, you have to admit – and stirred things up."

Gwaine looked at Merlin. "It's not just getting us out of the way?" he said.

Elyan shrugged; Merlin thought aloud, "Odin has long held a grudge against Arthur for the death of his son. He's sent raiders across the border and at least one assassin that I know of."

Gwaine considered Uther's probable reaction to even a hint of magic abroad in his countryside, and concluded Arthur was probably not too far off the mark – or alone – in his desire to see their friend far from harm's way. "I suppose I'll take a ride up that direction, see what I can find out."

"Did you talk to Gaius?" Merlin said to Elyan, noncommittally.

"I think," Elyan hesitated, "he avoided me."

Merlin's lips pressed together. "If someone is using healing magic carelessly enough to drawn the king's notice, Gaius is probably going to get involved," he said, and met Gwaine's eyes. "I think I might return with Elyan to the lower town tonight, see if I can help. At least maybe figure out what's going on."

Gwaine gave him a rueful grin, appreciating and understanding Merlin's tacit refusal to leave. "Be careful."

Merlin shot back immediately, "I will if you will."

Gwaine laughed out loud and took his first bite of better-than-decent roast pheasant.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen's brother breathed the same caution _Be careful_ as Merlin left him at the door of the house he shared with his sister. Merlin huffed – two and a half months now he'd been _dead_ , and not a rumor to the contrary so far; if that wasn't careful, he didn't know what was – and heard the door latch softly behind Elyan as he ghosted down the street.

Late as it was, the Rising Sun was still doing business. Merlin's approach slowed to a series of hiding places, waiting til the street was clear before slipping to the next one to wait again. Finally he reached the corner where lantern-lit front met dark-alley side, and eased cautiously around the corner, all senses alert. As always, see without being seen.

The door was propped open with a rock, to move air through an occupied room on a summer evening, and Merlin found his eyes drawn upwards. To the narrow slice of the room he could see from that angle, and he wasn't completely surprised to glimpse the totem dangling there.

Gleaming purple though the crystals were colorless and the feathers white and brown-speckled.

He retreated a few feet into the cover of the alley's darkness, content for the moment to be part of Camelot again, even if an invisible part. The streets were relatively clean, relatively safe, the worries of the people minor. Except for the one _he_ had, about the magic-user. A healer, apparently, and he found he was impressed at the evident level of skill… but the person had come to _Camelot_. And then attracted the notice of the king and his son and of course Gaius would feel –

A figure moved down the street, concealed in cloak and hood but Merlin recognized him almost faster than he might've done Arthur.

Gaius. Out so late? And trying to avoid notice himself?

Merlin guessed his old friend knew more about the rumored healer than he had told even Arthur, or Gwen or Elyan. He figured he knew the warning the old physician was on his way to deliver, and decided to follow, also.

Just in case.

He didn't have far to go, before Gaius stopped to knock at the door of a residence. The old man cast a glance up-street and down, before the door opened on a grandmotherly woman, short and plump, with apple cheeks and gray mixed in the long brown braid over her shawl-padded shoulder.

She beamed positively radiantly at the sight of her visitor – and leaned up to kiss his cheek, drawing him inside.

Merlin didn't know whether to gape incredulously, or snicker, or suspect. Whether to steal away and let Gaius be – an old friend, or a new one? – or to…

Another faint purple glow caught his attention. Another totem of crystal-and-feather hung from the eaves at her door, and something felt suddenly uncomfortably _off_ to Merlin. The woman had been fifty if she'd been a day, and to know Gaius well enough to kiss him, must have spent time in Camelot before – and should know better than to hang such symbols of magic so obviously.

He knew now why Gaius had reason to be edgy and short, even with the prince, but wondered… what if that was deliberate on the part of this woman?

Crossing the street, he took a position at the corner, where the house shared a wall with the next one, plus a foot and a half. The window was open; he could hear, if not see.

"Look at you, always so solemn." The woman's voice; Merlin assumed she and Gaius were alone. She sounded just as she looked, comfortable and sweet.

"And you always teasing me."

Merlin couldn't stop a smile; he'd never heard Gaius sound so… youthful? His guardian had been mostly stern, in his experience, rarely unbending to compliment or make a joke. The idea of the pixie in love with the old physician had given them what Gwaine called the shivers, but…

"I missed you," she said softly.

"And I you."

Merlin gripped the edges of his concealing cloak together over his heart. The emotion in those simple words, he recognized. He himself might sound much the same if ever he got the chance to say them to…

"Twenty years and here we are back in Camelot again," the lady went on. "It almost seems as though nothing has changed."

He knew that nothing would bring _her_ back, but he could understand how a _decision_ to separate might be harder to bear than one not chosen by either.

"And some things never will," Gaius said heavily.

Outside the window, Merlin mouthed the word as she said it. "Uther." Of course.

"It's not safe for you here," Gaius continued. "He suspects that magic is at work in Camelot."

Merlin's suspicions woke again, though muted and softened by the evident feeling the two had shared, long ago. Had she been careless on purpose to attract Gaius' attention, when she might have simply walked up to his quarters to see him? Twenty years surely was enough time to change a person's appearance so no one would recognize her to point her out as a magic-user. But this oblique approach brought her to Uther's attention as well…

She was pleading now, "It is my living. I must buy food, I must pay rent…"

In the darkness, he shook his head slowly. To visit a loved one long-separated was one thing. To return permanently and so carelessly…

"But why here?" Gaius said. "The dangers are too great."

"Because I wanted to see you again."

He believed her. He did. But he also knew that Gaius could not resist or argue against such a reason, and that made him wary for his mentor's sake.

"Dawn is almost upon us, I must get back," Gaius said, and Merlin shifted back, a little. Not for the world would he be caught listening in on _this_ conversation.

"You will come back tomorrow?" Softly pleading. "Please?"

Merlin closed his eyes. How could Gaius say no? How could he remain aloof? And if she didn't listen to his warning to leave?

"Of course."

He heard the door open – pause – then close again, before Gaius' footsteps passed him. Merlin froze and held his breath, but he needn't have worried – the old man was entirely preoccupied. And not with jubilant delight, but with weighty concern, he could tell by the hunch of Gaius' shoulders; he wondered if maybe he should say something to the woman, maybe write an anonymous note advising her, if she cared for the old man…

Another voice cut the night's stillness and chilled Merlin's blood in his veins. A male voice, and issuing from the very window where he'd listened to Gaius' conversation.

"You have done well. The physician is vital to our plan." The voice twined with a sinister hissing whisper.

Ah, hells. A _plan_ , and one Gaius was already caught in, unknowing, because of his history and companionship and care for the newcomer. As a fellow healer, and magic-user, and survivor of Uther's purge – and something more, if Merlin had to guess.

"Please, do we have to use him this way?" Her voice was changed, and Merlin straightened with interest, if not surprise. There was fear there, and protest – whatever the plan was, she was not following eagerly. Not participating freely?

"I've told you before." Cold, and hard. "Uther trusts him. He alone can get us close enough to the king."

Merlin filled his lungs, and let the breath out slowly. This, again. He almost wished he hadn't heard; every time he discovered a plot against Uther – and a tyrant with the blood of so many of his people on his hands, but _Arthur's father_ – he had to decide.

But it wasn't in him to stand back and watch _anyone_ murdered. And this time, Gaius was involved.

"But he will be blamed for everything that happens." The woman was unhappy, and clearly not the decision-maker in the partnership. Which meant – was the unknown man a sorcerer, too, to have achieved her loyalty in spite of fear and the lack of cooperative planning? What was their bond?

"And you will not, how perfect," the man spat, heartless and now sounding a bit angry.

"But his punishment will be terrible," she said desperately – and a pained choking sound followed so suddenly that Merlin straightened and took a step out from concealment, sure that the sorcerer had inflicted some wordless reprimand on the woman who dared question him.

"You must put aside your feelings," the male voice said, steely-smooth – reassuring Merlin that he need not intervene to save her life, at least not at that moment when he had so little information about the other, or the plan – "and do what needs to be done."

Her voice was breathless and pained. "Yes."

Silence. And after a moment, darkness.

Indecisive, Merlin waited until dawn truly threatened him with discovery, before he made his unseen way back to Elyan's forge. Arthur would need to be warned.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur went to the blacksmith's forge in broad daylight. Nodding to Elyan – who nodded back, unsurprised – without interrupting his hot, noisy task, he passed through the open work-space to the more sheltered room behind, where supplies and tools and projects could be locked at night.

Startling the young man who sat on a keg with his back to the door, shirtsleeves rolled against the dual heat of the season and the forge, toying idly with a great iron lock.

Click-open. Click-shut. No keys.

"Merlin," Arthur said, and in spite of the situation felt a very satisfied amusement when the younger man jumped and darted a guilty glance over his shoulder. "In broad daylight, and the middle of Camelot?" A moment of awkward realization, and he added sarcastically, "Not that _that_ is anything new for you, though, is it?"

Merlin looked uncomfortable and muttered, "I wasn't really paying attention."

Arthur felt a grin threatening both awkwardness and self-composure. "And that is nothing new for you, either."

Merlin relaxed into a grin of his own.

There were moments – rare, as they were rarely together – when it felt like they were strangers. Like Arthur was the peasant who had stepped onto a knight's training- or battle-field. He didn't know the weapons, or the rules, and he hated the feeling of vulnerability that ignorance gave him.

But then, just as quickly, something invisible would shift back into place and he would feel like no one knew Merlin better than he did, no one knew him better than Merlin did, and they could fight back to back without hesitation without thought, and be unstoppable.

"I searched the house," Merlin offered, along with the keg; Arthur straddled it, as Merlin perched atop a high work-counter. "It was empty."

Arthur nodded, leaning his elbows on his knees and twisting his mother's ring around his forefinger thoughtfully. "Gaius invited her to stay in the physician's chambers in the citadel yesterday," he said. "She brought all her things with her, I assume."

"No, I mean…" Merlin hesitated. "It was empty, Arthur. Uninhabited."

Arthur exhaled through his nose, closing his eyes briefly. Already the steady muffled rhythm of Elyan's hammer promised him a headache if he stayed too long.

It had been a trying week. He'd been worried to hear rumors of magic loose in the countryside – ready to fight his father if someone was arrested only for healing – relieved to hear Merlin wasn't their quarry – exasperated that he wouldn't hear of making himself scarce during a time of heightened security and suspicion – worried all over again when Merlin told him his suspicions.

An old friend of Gaius, using him and his position of trust to get close to the king – and not for any innocent reason – but herself being used by a mysterious third. Someone Merlin had only heard, and no one else had seen.

"I assure you, Alice has not smuggled a sorcerer into the citadel," Arthur said. "I searched Gaius' chamber this morning, while you were busy with the house in the lower town." Merlin's mouth dropped open, and Arthur forestalled him, "Of course I waited til they both were out."

"And?" Merlin said, pushing himself down from the counter to crouch closer to him. "Was there anything that gave you a funny feeling? Like you were being watched? Or that seemed strange, or… _old_? I thought, maybe the sorcerer forcing Alice's cooperation wasn't really _there_ , you know, maybe they had some means of communication, even though he'd have to be close by to –"

Arthur nearly made a sarcastic comment about funny feelings and his former manservant's girlish sensibilities. But that would be unhelpful right now. He didn't have all day to meet with ghosts and discuss treasonous plots and culpability.

"There wasn't anything to indicate close association with a man recently," Arthur said. No items of clothing or accoutrements, no extra supplies of a general nature or even anything suggesting it was a gift not purchased by the woman herself.

Camelot's physician had introduced her to Arthur; she was sweet and placid and undeniably happy to be with Gaius – who was undeniably happy to be with her. Perhaps the old man felt, with Arthur's change of perception regarding the neutrality of magic, he was content to keep his lady-friend in Camelot. Close enough to supervise her use of magic, which Uther no longer actively hunted.

It occurred to Arthur that there might be a reason for Merlin's reaction, something the young man hadn't himself recognized. He'd been perfectly happy for Guinevere to assume some of his old chores for the physician – and content to relinquish his care of Arthur to Orryn – but this stranger was a different story. Living now in his old room, free to practice at least judicious use of magic in healing – something Arthur had gathered Merlin had always struggled with – he wondered if the young sorcerer-renegade wasn't letting jealousy color his perception of the kindly older woman.

"Are you sure you weren't mistaken," he said, ready to tease the younger man to a more relaxed state of mind. "Don't you think you might be the least bit –"

Merlin's pique had hitherto been a thing of amusement. His intellect a thing to be mocked – brief flashes in a sea of absent-minded ridicu… _wait_.

The sorcerer's _anger_ cut Arthur's words off mid-sentence, and he suddenly wondered uneasily about _fury_.

"No," Merlin bit out. "No, I wasn't mistaken. If it was _my_ father, I wouldn't take the chance, but… Are you ever going to just believe me?"

Arthur dropped his gaze from Merlin's intensity – and it landed right on the sorcerer's hands, draped over his knees as he crouched at Arthur's side. Risking his life – again, still – even to _be_ here. And that last missing joint that spoke so eloquently, so silently, of obedience and truth and sacrifice.

And he realized, even if Merlin had misheard, had jumped to a mistaken conclusion, he owed it to the younger man to take him seriously. To take precautions.

"I'll notify the gate-guards, no strangers unescorted," he said. "I'll try to find some way of warning Gaius, and I'll make sure she doesn't get near my father. Satisfied?"

"What was under the bed?"

Arthur blinked, and realized that Merlin's gaze has shifted vaguely a few inches. "Under the bed?" he repeated, incredulous.

"Mm. Was there anything?"

"There was a box." He described its dimensions swiftly with his hands. "Black iron, bound with copper, lined with wool-padded linen, hinged lid, unlocked and empty." He stifled the urge to ask what Merlin had kept under the bed when it was _his_ room. "Why?"

Merlin hummed again. "No reason. I think I'll… stay here. Close by, if you need me."

"All right." Arthur stood at the same time as Merlin pushed to his feet, and the space was small and they were quite close and Arthur thought how he'd feel, shut out of the citadel and its doings during a time of indeterminate threat. "It won't always be like this."

"Hot and noisy, you mean?"

Arthur allowed a half-smile; Merlin's good humor was always so quickly restored. "You know what I mean."

Merlin shrugged. "I can wait."

Waiting was not something Arthur considered himself good at. It was necessary, of course, and he did know how to be patient, it was just – not really required of someone of his rank, often.

In the street, he met Guinevere, her hair in a neat twist at the back of her neck, apron over peach-pink dress, basket at her elbow. Sauntering with a troubled inattentiveness.

"My lady," he said, with humor and a brief bow, to make her smile and notice him.

"My lord." She returned the smile, with a curtsy that was somehow saucy, even as it was entirely proper.

"You're busy, I take it? Errands for Gaius?" He noticed that her basket was empty.

"Oh! No, not really." She bit her lip and looked past his left shoulder with a little frown. "I was given the night off early. Gaius'… ah, visitor, has been helping out, so they don't really _need_ me, and – she's sweet, have you met her? And so clever, I feel all thumbs trying to work with her, and… well it is awkward when they want to…" her dusky complexion pinked slightly as she finished, "be alone."

He took half a step closer, as the people in the street moved and spoke around them. He didn't touch her; he couldn't touch her, but he sympathized. If only he didn't also suspect.

"I think I have some news to cheer you up," he said, and she cocked her head to study him curiously. "Your brother has company also."

"Who would –" Her eyes widened. "Is he _really_? You're not – what's happening? You're not in danger, are you?"

"No, I'm fine." Her reaction bothered him; he wished she could simply enjoy a rare visit from their friend. "It's just… something of a precaution."

Though it occurred to him to wonder, whose idea it had been to send Guinevere off, and for what reason. He had a sudden desire to insert himself into his father's company and remain there, until Gaius persuaded his lady-friend to leave, or the stranger sorcerer made a definitive move.

"I'll see you tomorrow?" he added. He didn't see her as often as he had when she'd been Morgana's maidservant, but it was still almost daily.

"My lord," she said again, spreading her skirt slightly.

Four paces beyond her, he looked back – to see that she'd glanced at him over her shoulder, too. And if his grin felt a bit silly, the look of shy pleasure on her face was worth it.

However he felt and whatever he wanted, though, had to come second to duty and obedience to orders – which delayed him rejoining his father until just after dinnertime.

Arthur rounded the corner debating the advisability of giving even a general warning to the guards perpetually stationed on his father's chambers, but lost track of the thought at the sight of the man just closing his father's door.

"Gaius!" he called out, and the physician waited, patient look on his face and empty glass vial in his hand. Arthur knew what it was, of course. His father's injury was an old one, the physician's remedy frequently called for. "My father was in pain tonight?" he said, approaching.

"Indeed."

He had to ask. "And you made that yourself, not Gwen or –"

"No, Alice was kind enough to mix this concoction," Gaius said. Not a hint of suspicion, himself. "She is quite a skilled physician herself, I am fortunate to have her assistance."

Arthur wanted to say, _for how long_? He wanted to say, _I know she's used magic, also_. But instead he said, "Would you mind waiting a moment while I speak to my father? Then I have a matter –" both of them aware of the guards close enough to hear every word – "I wish to discuss with you."

"Of course." Gaius made a little bow; Arthur left the door open when he went inside.

The remains of his father's dinner still on the table; the soft sounds of Uther's manservant in the antechamber. The king already in bed, reclined against his pillows, head tilted sideways as if sleep had half-claimed him already.

"Father," Arthur tried; there was no response. "Sire?" He rounded the bed, heart beginning to pound, and dared to touch his father's wrist, give him a shake. And had to catch his father, sliding bonelessly from the pillow. "Gaius!" he shouted, and again, "Father?"

Uther's eyelids slid open as he gasped – ebony orbs in their sockets. Arthur almost dropped his father in his shock, and – hearing Gaius' hissing intake of air beside him – knew the physician had seen that, too.

"What's wrong with him?" Arthur said. "He's been poisoned, hasn't he?"

Gaius nudged him aside to bend over the king. "I cannot say at this stage."

Arthur moved around to the other side of the bed; the king's mouth dropped open on an incoherent moan, those dead-black eyes once again flashing open. "Just look at him, Gaius, what else could it be?" He cursed himself for sparing the old man's feelings, for not giving orders about the sorceress. "His food and wine are tasted each and every meal," he continued, hardening his tone. "It's brought here under armed guard. No one can interfere with it in any way. So it can't be his food and drink." Gaius looked up at him without straightening, realization dawning terrible. Arthur concluded, "The only other thing he's had is that remedy." Gaius bowed his head, and Arthur shouted, "Guards!" The two appeared, and the order tasted bitter in his mouth. "Arrest the woman Alice for using sorcery against the king – you'll find her in the physician's quarters. Take her straight to the cells."

As they quick-marched to obey, Arthur looked back at his old friend's slumped posture, the slow vague way he set about checking Uther, making him comfortable, providing what care he could.

"Why?" Gaius whispered. "Why would she?"

He opened his mouth to say, _Merlin thinks she's being forced_ – and didn't. Soon enough the old man would know they had suspected the lady he'd believed a long-lost friend returned to his life. "What can we do?" he said in a low voice. "Gaius – my father, the _king_. What can you do for him?"

"Without knowing the poison…" Gaius shook his head. "Very little, I'm afraid."

"If he dies, Gaius…" Something else he hated to say, both parts of it, "she must be executed for murder."

"I'll speak to her," Gaius said suddenly, desperately. "If she'll tell me what she used…"

"No – my father needs you here. I will speak to her," Arthur decided.

"But you're –" Gaius cut off, but Arthur knew what he almost said. _You're a Pendragon. Your father's son._ Motivation was always painfully clear in these cases – revenge for Purge-related wrongs done – why should anyone expect the magic-user who'd attacked the king to help the prince save him?

"I'll be back soon," Arthur promised.

The clanging noises of the door closing and locking echoed up the stairwell, informing him that the prisoner had only just arrived. The first guard who emerged from the cell-block gave him a single, silent nod, from which he inferred the prisoner had not resisted.

She stood forlornly – hopelessly, even – just inside the door, one hand negligently on a bar of her cell and her head drooping. But he knew she noticed and recognized him.

"Do you admit to using magic?" Arthur said, keeping his voice even with an effort. "Admit to poisoning the king?"

"Yes, yes," she said, looking up into his face with earnest innocence he wanted to believe. She looked, he realized, a bit like Merlin saying, _believe me_. "But it forced me to do it. It, it _made_ me."

"Who forced you?" he said. An open question; he wouldn't lead or startle her by betraying knowledge even of the fact of her confederate.

"The creature," she said. "The _creature_."

Well. They had been searching for a _human_ sorcerer. He supposed they could hunt it down and kill it later. "Please, my father is dying," he said to her. "Tell me how to cure him?"

"I don't know," she said. And he believed that too; he slammed his palm against the bar, making her jump. "I don't know! The manticore –"

It was his turn to jump, as her eyes flicked to the same soulless black and her throat closed on her words – she gasped, clearly choking. She clutched at her throat and twisted her head, and finally managed to gain a little air; the comfortable wrinkles of her face drew deeper with fear.

"It possesses you?" he said quickly, almost a whisper, as if they could be overheard. "It knows the origin of the poison?" Desperately she nodded, and he hazarded a guess. "It _is_ the origin?" Again, that nod.

"Gaius will know," she breathed. "He will know what to do."

"Where is it?" Arthur said, squeezing the hilt of his sword.

If it was in a far country, his father was doomed – if it was in the forest, Arthur needed to ride immediately, and with Merlin, recognized or not. If it was closer, in the town – in the citadel? – more people were in danger.

Her hands measured a square space in the air – just as he had done for Merlin earlier in the day – and he understood. Inside a box - the same one he'd found? How small was this creature? Had she been carrying it with her when he searched the rooms and found the box empty? She pointed vehemently at the cot by the wall of the cell, pointed sideways to indicate, under.

"Thank you," Arthur said hurriedly. "If we are in time to save his life, I will speak for you at trial, I promise."

Surprise smoothed out the fear on her face, but he had no time to stay to chat.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

"And, she was quizzing Gaius about mountain balm," Gwen finished, her dark eyes twinkling as she glanced up from the sewing in her hands.

Merlin chuckled, but couldn't raise more than that. Sitting still at the table in Gwen and Elyan's house – eating her cooking, infinitely better than his own or Gwaine's – his muscles fairly ached to be sprinting himself about the citadel.

It was all well and good to say, _I can wait_. For his dreams to come true, yes, forever. But patience wasn't really a virtue he'd acquired in situations like these; it felt odd to rely on Arthur to face a magical opponent. And, he felt more than a little suspicious of Gwen's unexpectedly early arrival.

Merlin shifted sideways on the bench that faced the two siblings, the better to hear warning bells or at least a shouted warning from the street. He wondered if the threat of danger would decrease, the later the hour got, or increase.

Something alerted him, scant seconds before a boot or heavy fist pounded at the door; Elyan was on his feet moments after Merlin, but he remembered to restrain himself. He stepped just as swiftly to the back of the home in preparation to hide himself from strangers, as the blacksmith did to open the door.

"My lord!" the soft-spoken young man exclaimed, and Merlin untangled himself from the curtain, stumbling over an unopened bag of flour to rejoin the others.

The prince was pale and grim, carrying a box that Merlin recognized from Arthur's description of it earlier that day – in both hands, and at a distance from his body. Awkward, though it didn't appear heavy.

"What's going on?" he said, as the prince thumped the small chest down on the table, cleared of dishes by Gwen only an hour or so ago.

"My father's been poisoned," Arthur said bluntly. "She slipped it into a batch of the pain remedy Gaius gives him for – never mind. Gaius is tending him but can't cure him and if my father dies Gaius is implicated also."

Merlin's mouth was dry – _he will be blamed for everything that happens, his punishment will be terrible_. "But I'm rubbish at healing –"

"Manticore venom," Arthur said, and made a motion directing Elyan to both stand back and protect his sister; the blacksmith obeyed. "You must have overheard the creature talking to Alice – Gaius says it can't live in our world and the box is a portal, that's why it looks empty."

He flipped the lock and tossed the lid back – Merlin took a long step forward as Elyan pressed Gwen back, both of them wide-eyed. The box was indeed empty, but Merlin could feel a tingle of strangeness about it; he passed his hand over the bare body of the box without touching it.

"Gaius says, if we call it here and destroy the box – the portal – the manticore will die and its poison in my father with it."

"Okay, but I don't –" Merlin shivered involuntarily; he'd encountered many creatures in the past three years, and never prevailed immediately. Not without a frantic search to find a solution and often a struggle to master the magic, risk and injury to others around – the afanc, the griffon, the sidhe, the questing beast, the troll the goblin the pixie, _serkets_ … "Arthur-I-don't-know-how-to-"

"Calm down." Arthur fished in an inner pocket of his dark brown vest for a scrap of paper. "Gaius sent the spells you should use. The first to open the portal, the second to destroy the box."

Merlin took the sheet, reading, mouthing, memorizing. What if it didn't – no, it would have to work right away. Much like the transportation spell the old man had given him to escape his pyre. He knew nothing about manticores – poisonous, obviously, capable of intelligence and speech – he couldn't lose one at length in a room with Arthur, Gwen, and Elyan. What if it was enormous, or strong? What if it had teeth and claws? He couldn't fail to summon it either, or Arthur's father would die.

"I expect, it'll be angry, when it comes?" Gwen said, her voice tremulous in a moment of silence.

"And fight back." Elyan moved at the same time as Arthur did, arming himself with a fire-iron as the prince drew his sword.

Arthur crouched, readying for a fight, and met Merlin's eyes. Some of the prince's determination and confidence – arrogance – seemed to seep into Merlin through that contact. The prince nodded. "You can do this."

Merlin took a deep breath, and steadied the hand he reached toward the box. " _Cume her, pin scinnlaecan_!"

A consciousness reached out and touched him, much as the dragon had. A disdainful query, to an unrecognized stranger. Merlin let it feel a hint of his magic to pique curiosity, let it feel his sense of trepidation and _it-has-all-gone-wrong_. The consciousness took immediate notice, and exception, tried to reach _through_ Merlin to discover where he was and who he was with; Merlin resisted and immediately sensed the creature rush forth, ancient and infuriated and alien. He tensed, ready for –

A creature the size of a cat with an evil baby face, framed with bat-wing fringe – and a segmented carapace of a tail, curled and tipped with a deadly stinger. Quite like the serkets after all. Small and clever, and it leaped from invisibility to the rim of the box intent upon Merlin.

Arthur – unsurprisingly – swung his sword; it whistled through the air unchecked as the manticore leaped again. And met Elyan's fire-iron swinging from the opposite side of the table. The manticore let out a blood-curdling grunt-screech as the iron bar connected, and another as it hit the bricks of the hearth.

Merlin took a single step forward - palm still raised – and concentrated on the box as his enemy. He roared the second spell, " _Adee thas sawle duru_!"

Even as Arthur and Elyan both pursued the creature on the floor beyond the table, the box exploded into shimmering motes. And Gwen shrieked as the manticore scuttled away from Arthur and Elyan, under the table like a thirty-pound spider – toward them.

Merlin whirled as she jumped, gathering her up in a confusion of skirts to shove her onto the long counter running the length of the back wall – and the venom-tipped stinger smashed through the slat-thin door of the under-cabinet inches from his right leg. He completed his turn blocking Gwen and holding her in place off the ground with his own body, and nothing more came to mind than to _kick_ the manticore threatening his shins.

So hard it actually rose in the air, and Arthur - circling the table intent on his prey – twisted and compensated as only a skilled swordsman could. His weapon cleaved space through another explosion of sparkling motes; Arthur, expecting resistance when his blade met the creature's body, stumbled a bit before catching himself.

"Oh, my goodness," Gwen said weakly, clinging with both hands to one shoulder of Merlin's shirt as he leaned back against her drawn-up knees.

"Did it get you?" Arthur demanded. "Either of you?"

Merlin felt her shake her head, and watched Arthur sheathe his sword. Moved out of the way when the prince came to lift Gwen back down to the floor – and met Elyan's eyes when she twined her arms tightly around the prince.

"I see now what Gwaine was talking about," the blacksmith said.

"What?"

"Camelot is not a dull place," Elyan said, with the gleam of a smile in his dark face.

Merlin huffed a wry-amused chuckle – and was unprepared for Arthur's hand on his shoulder, turning him slightly to face his prince as Gwen released him. Merlin tensed, worried for a moment what reaction – and Arthur's hand slid closer to his neck in a grip that was fondly proprietary. For a moment the prince said nothing, but he hid nothing either.

The blue of his eyes said, _thank you_. The sort of deep, bonding gratitude between friends that could never be repaid – and didn't need to.

"I know," Merlin said. "You, too."

"Elyan, thank you for your help. I have to get back to my father," Arthur declared, striding toward the door. He paused briefly. "Merlin…" The quirk of a half-smile. "I'll see you sometime, I guess."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The king looked like he should still be in bed, to Arthur's eye. And if Gaius had said the same thing to Uther's face, he'd said it in private. But then again, how many times hadn't the king reiterated, the strength of a king is very much in his people's perception of his strength. So this morning, Uther held court.

"I am fortunate, indeed, that you found an antidote, Gaius," Uther commented, setting a goblet of water back on the tray offered by a serving boy.

"It will take time, my lord," Gaius responded, with a half-bow, folding his hands into his sleeves. "But you will make a full recovery."

"What of the woman?" the king added.

It was Sir Leon who stepped forward to answer. "We have her in the cells, sire. She awaits your judgment."

"She won't have to wait long," the king said shortly. "She's sentenced to death. We'll execute her in the morning."

"Sire, if I may." Arthur's heart was pounding, but he spoke casually. Politely, but clearly to oppose the king. Now he had the attention of the room; Uther was aware of it, and he saw in his father's eyes an anticipation of what Arthur was going to say. A testing, for the first time, of the tentative understanding they'd reached when Morgana died. "It seems the woman was in the thrall of some kind of creature. I saw for myself the difficulty she encountered when she resisted whatever enchantment was between them, to give information vital to your recovery."

"A creature?" his father said unpleasantly, straightening a bit on his padded great-chair; a whisper of tension ran around the room. He deliberately avoided catching Gaius' keen gaze.

Arthur pre-empted questions and orders, both. "I saw it for myself – it has been destroyed and is of no further threat to anyone," he declared. "And with it gone, neither is this woman." He wondered if it would do any good to bring up the instances of miraculous healing that had been attributed to the woman, and decided it would complicate things unnecessarily. "Perhaps, in light of that, her sentence might be lightened?"

Uther drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair, contemplating – but Arthur had the feeling his father thought of _him_ , rather than the case. "What would you suggest?"

"Banishment," Arthur said immediately. Surely Alice had made her home somewhere peacefully enough for twenty years; she could simply return there.

"It is," Uther remarked lazily, "yet another proof that magic is untrustworthy, dangerous and subversive. If her death is not to bear witness of the penalty of trusting and allowing and associating with sorcery – be sure that she knows, her life will." He shifted again, leaning forward – though weak in body, determination was strong as ever in his eyes. "She is banished on pain of death, and Arthur, if it comes to that… you will preside over her execution. Are we clear?"

Arthur took a deep breath. If she died, it would be at his hand – but for now, she would live. For now, it was enough. "Yes, my lord," he said.

 **A/N: A bit longer, this one. But no one minds. And, it was a perfect opportunity to show that bit of a shift I hinted at between Uther and Arthur, at the story's end. Arthur's going to champion 'innocent' magic-users a little more, and Uther's going to allow it…**

 **300 reviews, everyone! That's a record for any of my stories! Thanks so much to all of you who contributed your opinions!**

Kirsten: Thanks for reviewing, glad you liked this version of "Eye of the Phoenix". I always love rewriting so Arthur is in the know – but for this ep, it's not only that he _didn't_ complete his quest 'alone and unaided', but that it wasn't really about him or the trident. Although, it's quite a good opportunity to demonstrate Arthur's maturation, that he can lay aside that arrogance or hurt pride, for what is ultimately best for the kingdom (not only the Fisher King's land, but to have that 'help' when danger comes to Camelot in the future)…


	22. Of Hearts and Sorcery

**A/N: This chapter is two episodes; Morgana's presence doesn't complicate these situations as happened in-series, so I took the opportunity for some fluffier scenes before we get into the season 3 finale… Which will probably take a bit longer to write, so there will probably be a little delay before I post the next one…**

 **Episode 3.10 "The Queen of Hearts"**

"Perhaps a ride this morning, my lord?" Orryn suggested, smoothing wrinkles from a perfectly positioned coverlet.

Arthur snorted from his place at the window. He had one boot up on the sill, and leaned forward over his bent knee, turning his gaze vaguely back to the shifting clouds in the sky, rather than the more tangible world below. "You think I need to get out and clear my head?"  
Respectful pause. "It doesn't matter what I think, sire. If _you_ think it will help you…"

Again, Arthur missed Merlin. Orryn did not ride, or hunt. Of course, Merlin had still been less-than-completely-capable after three months as Arthur's servant at both activities, but while Orryn was more obedient and much quieter than Merlin had ever been, there was something amusing and distracting about Merlin's clumsiness and complaints. Something relaxing about winding Merlin up. And the outings had become about _that_ , more than any claimed quarry.

Orryn was an attendant. Merlin had been a companion.

There was nothing specific on Arthur's mind, as he left the window – his room – the citadel. No threat any nearer than the northern border with Odin's territory. No disagreements with his father other than the one over Alice, nearly three weeks ago now. Nothing to break up his rather monotonous schedule except the anticipation of the tournament in another fortnight.

It wasn't meaningless, his life. And he did prefer peace to danger.

So what was it? he asked himself, setting the young bay stallion he'd chosen to a pace both of them found exhilarating, without leaving the relatively-assured safety of the territory nearest the heart of the kingdom. The distant threat of war with Odin? The question of Cenred and Morgause?

So much of his life seemed to be about waiting. Things he thought he wanted that turned out to be harder to handle than he expected. Magic, and Merlin. Love, and… He didn't see that any changes to those two areas of his life were possible, as long as his father was king.

And of course he wasn't in a hurry for _that_ to change. Even though he felt himself moving, this year, toward a serious contemplation of his own reign, at the same time he thought he would never be ready to lose his father.

It was a good thing the king wasn't planning to enter the tournament this decade.

Although… he shifted his seat in the saddle and the bay stallion obediently slowed pace… as the physician's assistant, Guinevere would attend every match unless she was needed elsewhere.

He couldn't help thinking of his match with Olaf, foggy senses coming clear to the feel and taste and scent of her kiss on his lips, her body in his arms – a moment of glory before pain and realization of the trouble he'd gotten himself into crashed down on him. And yet another tournament, when he'd competed disguised – and slept in her house – and embarrassed himself with his thoughtlessness and arrogance – and kissed her again.

The realization came to him so clearly that he reined in, there in the middle of the path.

She forgave him his faults, and encouraged him to virtues. She made him feel strong and capable of victory – and yet she also recognized what true victory was. Skill and not acclaim; peace and not conquest. Her presence and caring had even made his injuries more bearable.

He _loved_ her.

"Not thinking again, are you?" An amused voice startled him, and he had to pay momentary attention to the stallion who'd reacted to his reaction. Though of course he knew immediately who had addressed him. "Perhaps you ought to dismount for that, less chance of you hurting yourself."

The stallion settled; Arthur watched Merlin step down from the high bank on his right – and slip on a wash of pebbles, his long arms wind-milling for balance.

"I'm sure I'll be fine," he drawled. "Safer than you afoot, looks like." Merlin made a rude noise, sauntering beside Arthur's left stirrup as the bay stallion began to step down the road again. "What are you doing out this way this morning?" Arthur added.

"Gwaine is still up north," Merlin answered obliquely, with a glance up at him. "No news?" Arthur shook his head; the patrols had reported nothing noteworthy since frequency and unpredictability had been increased. The sorcerer shrugged. "Thought I'd start helping Gwen get Gaius' winter supplies laid in."

"Oh?" He tried to keep his tone disinterested, but Merlin's flashed grin was keenly perceptive.

"You mean to say you went riding on a whim and just happened to end up in the part of the forest where she'd be spending her day?"

Arthur followed the line of Merlin's arm and finger, lifted to point, and saw a female figure fifteen or twenty paces distant, crouched in a patch of greenery beside a basket, wearing the lavender dress that was his favorite.

"Yes, it was," he said stiffly, then considered whether Orryn might have known of Gwen's plans.

"Come on," Merlin proposed. "Nothing too pressing on your schedule, is there? Both of you deserve a day off, don't you think? Some time alone, some time together…"

" _Merlin_." Arthur warned him against suggestiveness with just the one word. The sorcerer tossed him another smirk, but one so full of boyish pleasure and shared joy he didn't have the heart to offer even a token reprimand.

Guinevere straightened, hearing their approach, and lifted her head to shade the sun from her eyes, the better to identify them; Arthur dismounted and drew his reins self-consciously through his gloves.

"Good morning," she said, beaming, and gestured with both hands to the two of them, side by side. "I have missed this sight."

"Guinevere," Arthur said, his heart doing an unexpected and uncontrolled flip in his chest. "You look…" And stuck on a word that would be good enough, without being inappropriate.

Merlin leaned forward, taking the reins from his hand. "I think he's trying to say you look nice," he teased them both. Arthur grimaced at him through clenched teeth, and his blue eyes widened innocently. "I'll look after your horse, then, shall I, sire? And Gwen –" he bent to snag her basket with his other hand – "it was goldenseal, elder, and yarrow, right?"

"Elder leaves," she hurried to clarify, beautifully flustered. "But you'd know that, wouldn't you…"

Their friend gave them a brilliant grin, turning to lead the bay stallion away.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Walk with me?" he invited. "There's a little stream down this way…"

She followed willingly, toying with a sprig of whatever she'd been plucking for Gaius already. Neither of them spoke immediately, but the silence with her was just as relaxing for Arthur as the bickering with Merlin was. However that worked.

"It feels different, doesn't it?" she ventured at last. "Being away from Camelot?"

"I love Camelot more than I can say," he said immediately, but felt his chest cave slightly with the sigh that followed involuntarily. "But when I'm there… I feel I can hardly breathe, everyone expects so much of me. Being here…" he dared greatly – "with you, I can be myself."

Her cheeks plumped slightly with her smile of pleasure, and he had to restrain himself from trying for a kiss with an effort. "I like that – you being yourself." Honesty, but with a bit of – flirtation?

The world smelled of sunlight and earth, pine and water. Their walk was leisurely; he took her hand and tucked it into his elbow, relishing the closeness with her. A bit of heaven, and he _wanted_ … He drew her to a stop and closed his eyes to feel the shadows of the leaves tossing on his face, the backs of his eyelids.

"Sometimes I dream of leaving Camelot," he admitted.

He could feel her surprise in the tension of her hand in his elbow. "Really? Where would you go?"

"I don't know." Someplace without castles. "Somewhere where nobody knew who I was." Someplace where people lived in peace with their neighbors. "I'd get some land and become a farmer."

She tugged a bit on his arm, and he opened his eyes, following her to a fallen tree trailing its farthest leaves in the stream he'd mentioned. She seated herself daintily, spreading her lavender skirt carefully, but without the fuss a noblewoman might have put up. And when she spoke, it was with a gentle mix of humor and remonstrance that understood his feeling without approving it completely. Because of course, when all was said and done, he was the prince and it was an impossible dream.

"I can hardly see you toiling away in the fields all day."

He grinned as he put his boot up on the trunk next to her – keeping distance from her skirt – and let it turn into a joke. "Obviously I'd take Merlin with me; he can do all the hard work."

She laughed out loud and looked around for their chaperone – discreetly and industriously keeping his distance. Arthur didn't bother. "I'm sure he'd love that."

Their young friend probably would, Arthur thought. For a while at least. What was it Merlin had said to him _– I wouldn't know what to do with_ easy _, and neither would you._ The stream gurgled and laughed and played, over stones and twigs; Guinevere heaved a sigh of contentment, her brown hands, strong and small, resting folded in her lap. Arthur shifted to put his boot down on the opposite side of the trunk, and seated himself astride it, facing her.

"Have you ever," he kept his tone neutral, "dreamed of life as a farmer's wife?"

She shot him a look – he wasn't so sneaky as he thought. That was a double question there, and she knew it as well as he did. "I haven't really… dreamed of being anyone's wife," she said carefully. Her eyes were dark pools, unfathomably deep. "No one has asked me, even to consider it. No one has given _me_ a choice."

"It would not be an easy one," he warned, the thrum of his pulse increasing, a bit.

"The important ones never are," she told him. Her voice trembled slightly, but her eyes never wavered.

"I haven't said… anything," he told her, feeling sudden trepidation to be crossing this line. Because he was taking her with him, and neither could go back to a time when these things were unsaid. "I can't ask anything of you, and I can't offer… well, that's not quite true. I can offer you –" Brief hesitation, then brave plunge – "my heart. That's mine to give, no matter what, and I have the feeling it's belonged to you for some time, now. I'm not asking –"

She put her hand gently over his mouth, and he froze to keep from kissing her there, too. "Thank you for being honest with me," she said, a breathless catch in her voice. "I… feel the same. None of us can know what the future holds, but as long as we… keep being honest, about how we feel…"

A hint of a question. There could be no betrothal, no marriage for a prince without permission from the crown. Which would be exceedingly difficult if not impossible to gain, from Uther. Who might be king yet for decades. He would not ask her to wait, to lose her chance at a family as the years passed in frustrated expectation; he wanted her, but he hoped his love was big enough to let her go, if that was what her happiness required of him.

He took her hand in his, then, and kissed it, trembling in his grasp. Then he leaned forward and lay his cheek alongside hers, inhaling the scent of her hair. And after a moment, she relaxed enough to rest her head on his shoulder, and it was enough that they were together, as the moments passed in melancholy perfection.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwen's basket was packed full, the knotty yellow root of goldenseal, elder-leaves from the patch of shrubs at the bottom of the meadow, the long feathery stems of yarrow now past its flowering stage. He'd also added some wild thyme and horsetail that Gaius could always find a use for.

Merlin had remained on the far edge of sight and hearing of his two friends, not intruding on their privacy. Protecting them from discovery, by friend or foe.

But. It had been nearly three hours, now, and surely people would begin to wonder about both of them. For the prince, someone might be sent out after him – and even if not, it wouldn't do to have them walk back into Camelot together.

Merlin glanced back up at the bay stallion trailing his reins across Merlin's shoulder in his crouch by the horse's front hooves. "I hate to do it," he told the horse. "But it doesn't look like either of them is going to say it." He sighed. "Time's up."

Rising to his feet, Arthur's mount stepping obediently behind him, he made his way slowly to the two seated on a low tree trunk near a gurgling brook. Each of them leaning into each other comfortably, companionably. He smiled, even as his heart gave a pang of something not unlike loneliness.

He wished his friends could court more openly toward an acceptable marriage. He wished Alice could have stayed with Gaius. He wished…

A yellow and black insect buzzed suddenly near enough his face to make him flinch; instinctively he used magic – and a puff of air – to sent the wasp on its way.

Right toward the snuggling pair. Oh, dear.

Arthur noticed it first, hovering just past Gwen's off shoulder. Merlin watched his prince stiffen; she reacted, pulling away a bit – then freezing as though he'd warned her to stillness. Intent on the tiny intruder, Arthur moved only his hand and arm, reaching for one of his gloves on the log next to him.

One well-aimed flap, and the wasp was dealt with. And Merlin could not help smiling at the way Arthur's very ordinary championship of the maid brought them very, very close – Gwen touched his cheek and leaned into the kiss.

Merlin turned to give the bay stallion the full benefit of his grin; it took no notice. He waited… and waited… and cleared his throat in an exaggerated way.

Behind him, Gwen giggled. Arthur said, "All right, _Mer_ lin."

And all was well with the world.

* * *

 **Episode 3.11 "The Sorcerer's Shadow"**

Almost a day's journey from the citadel, but just inside the northern border, Gwaine dismounted to lead his horse awhile, privately lamenting the need to leave the road. Banished, and all that, and it was a right royal pain in the ass.

Although the tacit assignment had come with definite benefits, he had to admit. On Odin's side of the border he could travel freely, drink and gamble and… so on. Men were so much more talkative when they'd been drinking, but thought you'd been drinking more. While they were still winning the dice-throws.

But he'd reached the point where he didn't feel like he was doing anyone any good there, anymore.

Odin, he guessed, had been testing the span of the border for weaknesses, but the terrain wasn't good for an invasion-size force to take Camelot by surprise. Uther had answered the unrest by increasing the frequency of patrols, and Gwaine guessed it was Arthur who'd arranged the incomprehensibly random timing.

If he was Odin, he'd revert back to the dishonorable and at-least-once-thwarted tactic of hiring an assassin. And in Gwaine's experience, such a person was going to appear innocuous and innocent and would never be caught this far from the target. Camelot, the Pendragons, specifically Arthur.

So Gwaine was on his way to rejoin Arthur's secret protector.

Not so far from the road that he didn't hear voices, around noon when the sun overhead poured welcome warmth down through gaps in the colorful foliage overhead, and he was still a few hours from seeing the white towers.

"Your mother know you're out here?" Sneering superiority, the sort of tone that always made Gwaine itch to throw the first punch. "What's your name, boy?"

He stopped walking and turned to look his horse in one large liquid brown eye. And shook his head. Curiosity killed the cat, so it was said, but Gwaine figured he should have at least half as many lives as a cat. Dropping the reins where his mount would stand and wait unseen – unless something spooked the gelding – Gwaine began to circle to gain the road, also unseen.

"Give it back!"

A _young_ voice, Gwaine noted, as he rounded the curve in the dirt track to bring the trio of strangers into his view. Two men he wouldn't hesitate to call bandits – approaching middle-aged, roughly dressed and well-armed, one fat and one bald - stood menacing a fresh-faced boy, on his backside in a meager clutter of belongings.

"I'm doing you a favor!" one of the men protested sarcastically. "One day you'll thank me!"

The boy was tense, white and scared, but demanded, "I said, give it back."

Gwaine prowled closer; they hadn't noticed him yet. He figured the second sword in Fatty's hand was the contested valuable. It was plain-looking, but such things could be deceiving, he knew very well.

"I thought you were a fighter?" Fatty jeered. "Well, here, I'll show you how to fight–" He took a sudden step, making an abortive slash in the air with the weapon in his hand, and the boy flinched back. Baldy snickered, and Gwaine had seen and heard enough.

"Good morning, boys," he said breezily. "How's pickings?"

The two men spun – startled but not afraid – and gave him a mocking appraisal. The boy behind them, being less experienced, showed his surprise at the interruption in wide eyes and open mouth.

"Who're you?" Fatty demanded. The more dominant – the more talkative – of the two.

"Now, I can't tell you my name," Gwaine said. "I'd have to kill you. See, I'm an outlaw – and I find I take exception to the pair of you robbing travelers on my road."

"Your road?" Fatty returned. "It ain't _your_ road."

" 'Tis if I say 'tis," Gwaine returned impudently. "Give his sword back." Past the incredulity on their dirty scruffy faces – though his probably didn't look much better – he added to the boy, "They take anything else, mate?" The boy shook his head, and Gwaine shifted his gaze back to the fat thief. "Just the sword, then, and we can all be on our way."

"Thought you said you was an outlaw, and rob people on this road," Baldy objected. Gwaine pegged him for a significant lack of mental agility – though those muscles would need consideration in a physical altercation.

"So I did," he said. "But today's my day off." With his left hand he flipped his fingers in a condescending command for the sword to be returned to the boy. His right was already surreptitiously caressing the hilt of his own sword.

"You're going to make us, are you?" Fatty said, handing off the stolen blade to sweep aside the edges of his coat, revealing an array of weapons on his belt.

"He tried asking nicely, I tried threatening." Gwaine sighed. "We're really going to do this the hard way?" He moved forward, each step balanced, as if he would simply pluck the weapon from Baldy's hand.

Fatty unsheathed his blade, fast as a striking snake – and it met Gwaine's, inches from his throat.

A killing strike.

Gwaine stopped being friendly. "That was not nice," he said.

And flowed into a flurry of exchanged blows, fighting both at once – Baldy more hesitant, though direct and each attack came with all his strength behind it – Fatty more skilled and less principled but lacking subtlety and giving every move away in advance with his eyes.

Gwaine had drawn blood five times altogether, limiting the injuries to limbs – and was beginning to think he'd have to inflict more serious torso wounds before the pair would back off – when the perfect opportunity opened, and he took it.

A twist, a flick, and the blade of the stolen sword chimed softly as it soared across the road. That was Baldy disarmed – Gwaine spun and ducked and sliced deeply through the muscle on Fatty's right forearm. Not life-threatening, though possibly crippling; he didn't quite drop his weapon, but the fight was over and they both knew it. He wouldn't use that hand for weeks, and would need to seek professional attention to avoid losing it to rot or infection. Blood dripped through dirty fingers, breath hissed through clenched teeth, and Gwaine found he wasn't sorry at all.

"My mistake," Gwaine said, controlling his breathing through his nose. He combed sweat-dampened hair back with his fingers, and gave them a wolfish grin. "This isn't my road after all. Sorry for the misunderstanding – I'll just be on my way."

The boy was still standing there on the road, watching open-mouthed – though he'd had the presence of mind at least to snatch his belongings back into a leather pack, and strap the sword on his back again. Gwaine gave his head a suggestive jerk, and the boy retreated with him, off the road and into the underbrush, twenty paces or so to where Gwaine had left his horse.

"They won't follow," he mentioned, checking back once to every third glance the boy gave their back-trail. "Too busy licking their wounds."

"Are you really an outlaw?" the boy said uncertainly, as Gwaine reclaimed his reins and continued his journey through the forest.

"According to King Uther," Gwaine admitted freely. "But you have no reason to fear my company. On your way to Camelot, is it?"

"I'm going to fight in the tournament," the boy declared solemnly.

Gwaine looked him over and clicked his tongue as they began to walk. Just the sword, and not a bit of armor among the belongings that had been spilled around him on the ground. And if he couldn't stop himself being robbed by two men on the road…

"You sure about that?" he said. "It's a hard way to earn a living. I should know."

"It's honest, at least, prize money," the boy returned with a sideways look, and Gwaine laughed.

"I don't rob people on the road at the point of a sword, mate," he said. "Can't you tell a joke when you hear it? What's your name?"

"Gilli," the other said, a bit defensively.

"Tell me truth," Gwaine invited. "Did you run away from home?"

"My father –" Gilli began, then amended, "My parents are dead."

"And you thought you'd join them as soon as possible?" Gwaine asked lightly.

The boy grinned darkly without meeting Gwaine's glance. "Don't worry about _me_ ," he said. "There's more to me than meets the eye. I'll hold my own. I'll show them all."

Gwaine couldn't help a skeptical noise.

"You don't believe me?" Gilli stopped, and began digging in his pack. He unfolded a twist of cloth to reveal a gold ring, its flat top engraved with a symbol that made Gwaine think of Merlin's book of magic. "You're an outlaw, right? So you'd understand. This is why I'm going to win."

"You're going to fight with magic, huh?" Gwaine said. He continued walking, and after a moment the boy rejoined him, sliding the ring on his middle finger. "Normally I'd say good luck with that, but – I know someone who'd like a chance to talk you out of it." He glanced at the stubborn set of the boy's face, a hint of childish roundness remaining. "I think you owe me that much," he added mildly. "Tell yourself it's for dinner and a night's lodging, free of charge."

"The tournament starts tomorrow," the boy said mulishly. "If I'm not present, my place is forfeit."

"And your life?" Gwaine retorted. "What are you going to do if someone finds you out? I have to warn you, Prince Arthur is a lot sharper these days about spotting magic than he used to be."

"I'm not afraid of the Pendragons," Gilli insisted.

"Nor I, mate," Gwaine said easily. "But Arthur is an undeniably skilled swordsman – though I'd deny saying so to his face." Gilli gave him a suspicious look, and he grinned. "And, my friend – who I was telling you about before? – if he knew you were going to use magic against his prince… he'd stop you."

The boy scoffed. "What is he, some kind of sorcerer?"

"Yes, actually, and a pretty good one. See, I can be honest with you," Gwaine said. "Because for one thing, no one would believe you if you told them, and for another – well, let's say we have some very influential friends in Camelot."

"But you're an outlaw."

Gwaine hummed agreeably.

"And your friend, he's a sorcerer but he protects the Pendragons?" Such youthful scorn, Gwaine nearly grinned.

"Arthur's different from his father," Gwaine said. "Magic's going to return to Camelot someday, when the crown changes – well, heads, I suppose. But til then, I wouldn't recommend the use of it in public, or against Arthur."

"It's an open competition," the boy said stubbornly. "You're supposed to be able to use whatever skills you have. Without magic, I'm a nobody."

"I," Gwaine announced, "ran away from home when I was about your age. No shield, no armor, no tournament I was heading for, just sheer bloody stubbornness that I was going to make the world sit up and take notice. They were going to remember my name, no matter what it took. I was going to earn the respect of all men, with my sword."

Silence. The first fallen leaves crunched under their feet. Time passed in heartbeats and footsteps and eventually Gwaine's patience paid off.

"So what happened?"

"I got in fights. I got wounded, and robbed. I got drunk and tricked and tossed out on my backside. Nearly got myself killed. And one day as I sat alone in a tavern with empty pockets and an empty mug, I met two fellows." He grinned and shook his head, just to remember that day. "And, I ended up fighting for them instead of with them."

"And then?" the boy prompted, curious in spite of himself.

"I am still fighting for them," Gwaine said, and was glad neither was there to hear the pride audible even to himself in his voice. "I would die for them."

"Who are they?" Gilli said.

"Prince Arthur. And Merlin his sorcerer." The boy stopped dead in his tracks and Gwaine's mount bumped into his shoulder as he attempted to do the same. "It isn't the sword or the magic that'll win you respect of men that matter. Come on, same terms as before – and I'll show you what I mean."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gilli ended up staying with Merlin and Gwaine the rest of the week. Merlin had his reservations at first, but when the boy remained at the ruins instead of continuing to Camelot for the opening ceremony of the tournament, he relaxed and enjoyed the company of another magic-user his own age.

Gwaine gave Gilli the same pointers Merlin had watched him teach Elyan, and the two spent several hours every day at their swordcraft. Merlin showed Gilli the magic-book Gaius had given him, and taught him a fair few defensive spells. Confidence in his abilities, he thought, might soften Gilli's need to prove himself, and keep him out of trouble.

They told stories. They talked about their fathers. They talked about their dreams.

Elyan came to tell them of Arthur's victory in the tournament, and Gilli wore a pensive look as the three of them toasted their prince with jesting and with sincerity.

And when Gilli shouldered pack and sword in the early dawn glow, Merlin had two suggestions for him. "If you're still determined to make your own way, the city of Helva is a haven for those with magic," he said. "Or, here -" handing his new friend a small scroll – "there's a woman named Alice who's a healer. I've written directions where you can find her, as well as something of an introduction for you. I'm sure she'd welcome you as a student – or a guard." Merlin grinned. "Your preference."

"Thank you." Gilli took the scroll and tucked it away carefully.

"I know it doesn't seem like it now," Merlin added, "But one day magic will be permitted once again. And when that day arrives, you'll no longer have to hide who you are. Your gifts will be recognized. We… we will be free." He couldn't help a smile spreading, but Gilli answered it with a smaller one of his own, nodding. "And who knows, maybe then our paths will cross again."

"I hope so," Gilli said, sticking out his hand for Merlin to shake.

Merlin watched him walk out of sight – turning once to wave before he disappeared.

And sighed, wondering when he'd stop sending folks _away_ from Camelot, and instead begin welcoming them back.


	23. The Quest for the Cup

**Episode 3.12 "The Quest for the Cup"**

Arthur rode out of the citadel at first light, wrapped in a heavy cloak against recognition and the chill in the mid-autumn air – and turned his gelding's head in the direction opposite to his orders.

It wasn't yet dawn when he reached the ruins, and he wondered if he'd give his friends a scare, walking in on them asleep. The amusement he felt at the thought was distant, and interrupted by a man's voice, echoing-urgent, as his boot scuffed the threshold of the ruin's main entrance.

" _Someone's coming_."

A hissed warning, and Arthur didn't recognize the voice for Gwaine's til he heard Merlin more clearly a moment later. "It's Arthur."

He pushed open the crooked door that still protected the most-fully-intact chamber they'd chosen for residence. Gwaine stepped out from behind it as he did so - from a position of ambush should Arthur have proved to be a stranger – tucking his knife back into his belt.

Arthur regained breath he'd spent on hurrying as Merlin – also standing, though clad in trousers and unbelted shirt only, as if he'd just stood from his bedroll – moved closer. "I need you."

Merlin turned to wave a hand, and items from around the room began to fly together, packing themselves. Gwaine said, not really a question, "Both of us, and horses?"

Arthur nodded, and Gwaine slipped past him to ready their mounts.

A handful of minutes, and they both were ready – booted, belted, cloaked and mounted – and Arthur felt warmer and more confident than he had since yesterday, that he had two such men to depend on, to call on, ready and willing at a moment's notice without a word of explanation.

"Another quest," Gwaine guessed, as Arthur led them out at a fast clip – but not too fast for conversation, and one they could sustain for a while, as they had a long journey ahead. "Where are we going?"

"Cenred's kingdom," Arthur said, and felt the surprise of both, though for different reasons.

"It's not Odin this time?" Gwaine said.

"No," Arthur tossed back, "but he could easily take advantage of the situation, if it isn't swiftly resolved – and no, Merlin, it's nothing to do with Ealdor. We're going to the Forrest of Essetir." Still half a day's ride from Merlin's home village; they wouldn't have time for a visit, this trip.

"What happened, Arthur?" Merlin asked. "Why us, and not any of the knights?"

So Arthur told them. About the four-man patrol that had gone missing, and how Cenred had sent a messenger declaring them dead, claiming they were on his side of the border – essentially contesting it. Very nearly, a declaration of war, depending on Camelot's response.

"Think he's deliberately provoking you?" Gwaine offered.

Possibly. Probably. What concerned Arthur more for the moment was Sir Leon – one of the four and presumed dead with his fellows – until, Arthur reassured the grim expressions of his companions, he'd returned with the story of a miraculous healing accomplished by a group of druids with a magic cup.

"The Cup of Life?" Merlin said, and Arthur twisted in the saddle at his tone – caught Gwaine doing the same out of the corner of his eye.

"You know it?" Arthur said. Not because he was surprised, really, but wondering if Merlin might have additional information.

"I've seen it," Merlin allowed. "I just – I thought it had been destroyed."

Gwaine snorted. "We're up to twenty-five now, mate."

Arthur quirked an eyebrow, and Merlin explained, "He's keeping track of stories I owe him. But, Arthur, if the druids have the Cup, it's safe. They'll keep it secret, you can trust them."

"You know my father," Arthur said, facing forward again. "He wants it in the vaults."

"So ride around for a few days, and then tell him that the druids moved on, or hid it or destroyed it, or something," Gwaine said. "Why the quest?"

"Because Cenred's messenger did not leave Camelot until _after_ Sir Leon returned," Arthur told them. "We're afraid he's carrying word to his king about the Cup as well – Gaius told me some lovely horror stories about what might happen if Morgause gets her hands on it."

"It's only for healing, I thought." Arthur didn't look, but he thought Merlin _sounded_ pale.

"That's if you drink out of it," Arthur said. "Evidently with the right incantation and a little blood put into the thing… an immortal army could be made."

"So the three of us are going to take on Cenred's army," Gwaine said drily. "Immortal or not, I'm flattered at your opinion of our skills."

"The druids won't let Cenred or Morgause have it," Merlin said.

"Those two might not even know where the druids are," Arthur added. "I need Merlin to help me find them, to persuade them to trust me with their Cup."

"And I'm just along for fun?" Gwaine said.

Arthur turned to grin at him. " _You_ can take on Cenred's army."

"Or join it," Gwaine grumbled, pretending offense.

But Merlin didn't even smile.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

 _Hello_? Merlin tried.

The emotion in the valley was so thick he found it hard to breathe, hard to concentrate, and try to reach through the fog. Loss and fear, mostly, a bone-deep dread that what had already gone wrong was only the beginning of absolute disaster.

He swallowed and tried again. _Hello_?

And jumped when a hand descended on his shoulder. His eyes flew open and it took him a moment to recognize his prince – the mocking humor that covered the tension Arthur carried fading. "Are you all right? What is it?"

"Aren't they here anymore?" Gwaine called, from further down the valley.

"They're here." That emotion that bled into the air around like a soul's death-wound was hard to shake. Merlin swallowed again and was glad Arthur's hand was still on his shoulder. "Something happened."

He shifted his gaze, past the prince, up the side of the narrow valley where several of the caves – mirrored on the other side of the valley – were visible. Arthur let his hand drop, as Merlin abandoned the reins of his mount to climb toward the opening that fairly wept invisible fear and psychic pain.

His breathing harsh in his ears, the dry rattle of dust and pebble disturbed under his boots – and occasionally his hands when he stumbled – made it impossible to hear either companions following him or strangers awaiting him, but when he reached the chill shade of the cave, it seemed deserted.

It _felt_ crowded.

Everywhere was dry – floor walls ceiling skin eyes mouth – but the air seemed moist with silent frightened panting.

Merlin jumped as Arthur brushed past him – turned to see Gwaine lingering at the mouth to watch the valley at their backs – turned back as Arthur began toeing through scattered abandoned belongings and ruined furniture of the sort that was easy to pack and light to carry. Merlin moved past him, heading deeper into the cave system. Slowly, not intrusively; he felt there were people hiding – physically or magically.

"Arthur," Gwaine called softly, and Merlin turned to see the outlaw signal to the prince. Arthur stepped to the side of the cave, by the wall, dislodging an earth-covered blanket with his boot.

He glanced at Gwaine, then bent and yanked the material away from a small boy – lank hair hanging in frightened eyes, thin hands raised in feeble defense. Arthur took the boy firmly by the upper arms, lifted him to his feet.

"Where are your parents?" Arthur asked, steadying him and bending slightly to look him in the face. "Is there anyone else here?"

"Let the boy go," a voice said from behind Merlin, and Arthur reacted immediately, spinning the child to shield him, his hand flying to the hilt of his sword.

"No, wait!" Merlin said to him – then turned slowly, his hands held empty to his sides.

Three figures stood before him in the dim light of the rough cave – men if he had to guess, all three cloaked and the two on the sides hidden in their hoods. The one in the middle was calm, face lined but serene, fair hair that curled around his neck and ears.

"We meant no harm," Merlin addressed him. "You took us by surprise – he only thought to protect the boy."

"Let him go, Arthur," Gwaine said quietly, still further behind. "He'll be fine."

A shuffle of movement, and the little boy scrambled past Merlin toward his elders. For a moment he looked up at Merlin – who couldn't help a smile and ruffle of his hair.

 _Emrys_ , one of them said.

And Merlin responded before he realized the voice had come to his mind, not his ears. "Yes?"

Arthur stepped up next to him, looking from one figure to the next. "I am Arthur Pendragon of Camelot," he said. "I have come to request that you allow your healing cup to pass into our safekeeping. We fear that –"

" _Your_ safekeeping?" the central druid said, with gentle irony, and the word sounded plural to Merlin's ears. "Prince Arthur Pendragon, do you know the man you stand beside?"

Arthur gave Merlin a mildly sardonic up-and-down glance. "As well as anyone ever will, I expect," he said.

 _And Emrys, you stand openly with your prince?  
_ "I stand with Arthur," Merlin said aloud.

"Forgive me." The man came closer, with jerky, awkward gait over the uneven floor. "We've waited so long, it seems that… Son of Uther, you know his magic? You accept and understand and value?"

The whole cave seemed to hold its breath. Merlin suspected his face flamed embarrassed self-conscious red, and was glad for the dim light.

"Entirely," Arthur answered. "Not much, and … probably not enough, honestly."

"Ah," the druid said, a melancholy sigh straight from his heart. "Almost this gain soothes our loss."

"Your loss?" Arthur said.

"It's gone, isn't it?" Merlin said, at nearly the same time.

Others began to emerge, shapes in the shadows, the feeling of spiritual violation, something irredeemable and precious beyond measure _gone_ … eased.

"She came," the druid leader said. "This morning at dawn. The men with her were merciless, her magic dark and stifling and we could not stand against her. Our people are not fighters, we would have been destroyed to the smallest child, the Cup still stolen for its corrupted purpose, and none left to aid you in your quest to recover it."

"She," Arthur said. "Morgause."

"What can we do?" Gwaine asked, joining them. "Can we get it back?"

"Come," the leader said. "We shall see."

He led them further into the cave, torches springing to light as they passed, with a flick of his fingers. And while Arthur and Gwaine were both tense – as warriors on a quest in enemy territory probably should be – neither of them flinched at the open display of a stranger's magic. Merlin smiled proudly at their backs, lingering long enough to see the others of the druid community begin to resume ordinary activities.

"My name is Iseldir," the leader mentioned over his shoulder as they followed him down the rough path to an inner chamber. Tiny, deserted, little more than a passageway – Merlin could not see the end of it.

In the center was a thick rough column, a natural formation of the cave sheared off, perhaps centuries ago, the top of it hollowed into a basin the depth and diameter of Gaius' round physician's case. It was filled with water that dripped from the ceiling, overflowing in glimmering trickles to a narrow stream that drained further into the cave.

In passing it, Iseldir trailed his open palm over the elevated puddle, and it went completely still, like the surface of a mirror. Arthur and Gwaine involuntarily looked down into it, and Iseldir flipped his fingers to beckon to Merlin to join them. "Emrys."

His two friends shuffled a bit, and there was enough room for him to squeeze sideways between them, without pressing Arthur into the cave wall, or knocking Gwaine into the little stream.

Iseldir spoke a spell Merlin recognized, for scrying. " _Diegol cnytte, gewitte me yst_."

Images gathered, formed.

The first clear one was the Cup Merlin remembered. Not on the altar at the Isle of the Blessed, but on a high small table in a courtyard. Behind it – a smear of yellow and black coalesced into Morgause, wearing an intent but satisfied smirk as she tipped a short-bladed dagger downwards – crimson drops ran the edge, dripped down –

The image tilted. The cup was three-quarters full of black-red blood.

Someone moaned, a sound of hopelessness that echoed from irregular stone walls. Gwaine cursed foully and added, "We're too late?"

No one answered him.

Drip. Drip, drip, dripdripdrip –

Merlin tore his eyes away and covered them with his hand, feeling the skin of his face inexplicably wet.

"I don't see Cenred," Arthur said, in the stony-resolute tone he used when duty was clear, and impossible.

"There," Iseldir said.

Merlin dropped his hand to see the ruthless monarch, an expression of wary consternation on his wolfish face, unsheathe the twin swords that crossed over his back. He engaged two of his own men – turbaned and veiled – at once, while behind them Morgause smiled with an evil glee. Once – twice – three times the king landed a blow that should have killed his attackers. Absolutely ineffective. And then they cut him down, leaving him bleeding and motionless on a cowhide rug to take mindlessly subservient positions before the witch.

"Good riddance," Gwaine murmured.

The scene shifted to a wide view, the ranks and rows of Cenred's army – now presumably under the command and control of Morgause. Illuminated by torchlight occasional in the column – Merlin could almost hear both his companions counting, estimating.

"The immortals, they'll still need to eat and sleep, and so on?" Gwaine asked.

Iseldir shrugged within his cloak. He passed his hand over the surface of the natural basin, obliterating the image without touching it. The water trembled, quivered, rippled as another drop splashed. "Perhaps," he said. "Perhaps not."

"I was told," Arthur said, "this was done before. An army made immortal by the power of the cup." Iseldir nodded. "How were they defeated, then?"

"The Cup of Life had to be emptied of the blood it contained. Once that had happened, the enchantment no longer held."

"That sounds almost too easy," Gwaine remarked.

Arthur made an impatient sound. "She won't leave the Cup behind when she marches on Camelot. She won't leave it unguarded, ever. And if those guards know that their lives depend literally on protecting it…"

Merlin understood the despair that clung to the valley like an invisible miasma. It whispered subtly to his soul, also, clammy tendrils inching around his heart.

"Thank you for your help," Arthur said. "And for the life of the knight you saved." He pushed Merlin, who didn't move, then shouldered past him to head out toward the valley again. Merlin stumbled along behind him.

"Where will you go?" Iseldir asked, following Gwaine.

Arthur answered him. "Back to Camelot, of course."

Of course. Merlin shuddered and almost tripped into the prince's back.

"We might make it before she does," Arthur added. "Immortal or not, the citadel has never fallen to a siege, and I'm not going to abandon my father or my people."

"Where will you go?" Iseldir asked again. "Emrys."

His tone caught Arthur in his tracks as well as Merlin, and his prince turned to meet his eyes.

Drip. Drip. A world of choices – stay with the druids, Ealdor wasn't far, any direction but Camelot – but only one, after all.

Though his voice sounded only a hoarse whisper, Merlin repeated, "I stand with Arthur."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine sat on his haunches at the mouth of the cave, chewing on a strip of dried seasoned meat, watching his two companions.

He hadn't been exaggerating when he'd told Gilli that he would die for either – though he hadn't expected it to happen so soon – and would prefer it not to be in vain. He wasn't a pessimist by nature. But even _he_ didn't see how anyone could get to a cup guarded by an entire army. And citadel or not, no city besieged could hold out _forever_. And those fellows had forever, it sounded like.

It was funny, he mused, the two were so alike. Never really any question of whether Arthur would return to fight for his people, even against overwhelming odds. Never really any question whether Merlin would return to fight for his prince. Both of them grim and intent, now, taking the druid-offered sustenance and refreshment – but not the opportunity to relax. Not really.

Arthur was pacing in the mouth of the cave. A bit like a caged wolf Gwaine had once seen – back and forth, instinctively searching for an impossible escape – his head up as if he could see the progress of Cenred's army across the leagues. Chafing at the inactivity, like he'd prefer to draw sword and take them all at once, trusting to the strength of his feelings – love for his kingdom, righteous indignation that it should be so threatened – and sheer bloody stubbornness that victory _must_ be his at last.

And that was where they were different, too.

Merlin sat hugging his knees, motionlessly gazing at the same pebble on the floor of the cave he'd contemplated the last quarter-hour. Completely lost in his thoughts, which were miserable and hopeless, to judge by his expression. Gwaine had seen glimpses of this side of Merlin in the first couple of weeks after the escaped execution, and knew it meant Merlin felt useless. Having a task to complete and a purpose to fulfill, without the means to do it.

And here he was, in the middle. So Gwaine did what he did best.

He chucked a pebble at Merlin's ear. "So, _Emrys_. Is that a surname or a nickname or what?"

Arthur glanced down at them silently as he strode past; Gwaine considered tripping him up, just to break up the exhaustingly repetitive rhythm.

Merlin stirred. "It's just something the druids call me sometimes."

"The Fisher King said it too, mate," Gwaine reminded him. "You're going to tell me _he_ was a druid?"

Merlin snorted but didn't answer. Arthur's steps slowed abruptly to half-pace – then stopped altogether. They both looked up at him – squinted now into the brighter light of the mouth of the cave.

"The Fisher King," Arthur said, slow but significant. "What was it he said? _Albion's time of need is near – when all seems lost, this will show you the way_. Just as he was giving you that trinket."

Merlin scrambled to his feet; Gwaine remained in his crouch. "You think that might help?"

"It could provide answers, anyway," Merlin said, reaching Arthur's side in three leggy steps. "I think the threat of a second immortal army qualifies as a dark hour."

"Where is it?" Arthur asked, even as Merlin stretched out his hand.

Gwaine caught a stray flash of the gold of Merlin's magic reflected in his eyes – they waited a moment of breathless anticipation – and a tiny object rose glittering from the valley where they'd left their mounts. Maneuvering delicately, then flinging itself forward through the air. Arthur flinched, but the tiny vial protected by its wooden frame stopped, hovering, a food from Merlin's outstretched fingers, and he merely plucked it from the air.

"Impatient," Gwaine muttered, clambering to his feet to join his friends, aware that the druid inhabitants of the cave were giving them frequent curious glances.

"You carry this around with you?" It was a question with an obvious answer. Arthur reached for it, and Merlin allowed him to lift the trinket from his hand. "So, um… How does it – ah, how does it work?"

"I've no idea," Merlin admitted, peering into the water. "If it's described or explained in a book, Gaius and I have not managed to find it."

For a moment they stood there. Merlin spoke a few lines of a spell and Gwaine tensed – but nothing happened. Merlin made a thoughtful noise; Arthur shifted and gave him a sidelong glance. Merlin took the vial back from the prince, holding it by its base in his long fingers between the three of them, and spoke again. Again, nothing happened. He rotated it slightly, frowned at it, and _commanded_ , in the language of magic.

Nothing.

"Maybe you could ask Iseldir," Gwaine suggested. "He might have an idea how it could –"

Merlin spun on his heel before Gwaine had finished speaking, clearly intending to head quickly for the interior of the cave – but his eyes were on the water of Avalon… not his footing. He tripped headlong – Gwaine and Arthur both reached, but not fast enough. Merlin fell full-length on the uneven, rocky ground – without using his hands to catch himself – and nearly saved the vial.

At the last moment, when his breath left his lungs in a grunted puff, the trinket tipped from his hands.

And smashed.

For a moment, the silence of disbelief reigned through the entire cavern, as if the whole tribe held their breath at the sudden and horrible sacrilege.

Then Arthur swore explosively. "For the love of – _Camelot_ , Merlin! Your damn-fool _clumsiness_ –"

Merlin paid him no attention, scrambling up as if he could gather the precious spilled water into his hands; he choked out, "Oh no oh no –"

"Wait, _look_!" Gwaine said.

The trickles of water released from the broken glass had taken on a silvery mirror-sheen, leaving no residue of moisture behind to seek their level – a hollow on the floor of the cave, gathering to form a shallow pool.

Gwaine stepped closer. He could see neither golden-tan dirt underneath, nor dark shadowy cave-ceiling reflected from overhead.

He saw a girl.

Merlin breathed, " _Freya_?"

..…*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur bit his tongue, wishing he could retract his curse and his insult.

The situation was his fault, not Merlin's. He'd arrived in the cave too late to prevent the witch stealing the cup. And now, it seemed Merlin's mishap was actually the key to the help the Fisher King's gift supplied. For a single ironic moment, he wondered if that ancient king had known, somehow, that Emrys would be an impetuous, uncoordinated young man – if he'd seen or even intended this.

Once again, though, Merlin's luck was his to benefit from also.

He watched his former servant kneel on the dusty cave floor, oblivious to his friends and the druid strangers alike, engrossed in the shallow puddle reflecting the pale face and floating shadowy hair of a girl every inch of Merlin's body yearned toward.

 _I've missed you_ , the girl said, with a sweet but melancholy smile. Then interrupted his stuttering attempt to begin a sentence, _Merlin, we don't have long_.

"Is it really you?"

Arthur's heart twisted in his chest to hear that tone in his young friend's voice. It was a moment terribly, painfully, embarrassingly private; he found himself stepping back, as Gwaine moved up – they bumped into each other, and stopped.

"Avalon water, right?" Gwaine murmured in Arthur's ear. "I wonder if this Freya was his girl. Except that he said she's…"

"Who?" Arthur said.

"Druid girl he was in love with once," Gwaine answered. "Died of a curse. He brought her to the lake for burial, so how in all hells –"

"Not hell," Arthur corrected. "Avalon."

"Magic," Gwaine concluded succinctly.

"I think I know her," Arthur said.

 _You must come to the lake_ , they heard her say, in the quiet pause of Gwaine's curiosity.

"And you will give me the sword?" Merlin asked. The hope in his voice was almost as painful as the initial incredulity. Arthur didn't understand the specifics of it, but as long as Merlin did, he could catch up the details later.

He was aware that the druids were retreating, disappearing into the shadows, down passages to other caves, unobtrusively giving them privacy. But one of the last ones, a child, dropped a little clay jar and it smashed with a sound both sudden and sharp.

Merlin was startled into raising his head – just for a moment, but when he looked back down again, the gifted water was simply a puddle, drying into the dust of the floor.

"Freya?" Merlin called softly. Silence. He put out his hand – Arthur always seemed to notice when it was the left one – stretched his fingers over the puddle, allowed his skin to contact the surface in a shimmer of ripples. Then his whole body deflated with a sigh, and he sat back on his heels, still facing away from them.

"That was your girl, mate?" Gwaine said quietly and with sympathy. "Gorgeous, she was."

Merlin hummed agreement, and passed his knuckles swiftly over his cheekbones, clearly wiping a tear or two that had escaped.

"Did I know her?" Arthur asked. Always a dangerous question when it came to druids, he realized, but this, he had to know. "She looked familiar."

Merlin rocked back on his heels and rose to his feet. "I think you met her once," he said, his voice still husky with emotion, and he didn't meet Arthur's eyes. "In passing."

Many people came and went in the streets of the lower town; he wasn't surprised to hear that a druid or two might have mingled with the crowd while he'd been walking or riding through. He felt a pang of wishing things could have been different – Merlin hadn't been able to say one word to him of this girl, or of finding his sorcerer-in-hiding father, either – those few days of anticipation, happiness, worry, grief.

Arthur grasped Merlin's sleeve as he made to pass them in leaving the cave, and caught the younger man's attention and gaze. "I am sorry," he said. "You had to hide so much more than just the magic, and I – I never knew, I probably said something terrible to you, or –"

"Arthur, _don't_ ," Merlin said earnestly. "It was my choice not to tell you. It would have been complicated, and there was never a good time to say anything, and…"

And still his friend could support and encourage Arthur in _his_ relationships, without jealousy or resentment.

"I know," Merlin finished, squeezing his wrist briefly, before turning to lead them into the light.

"So we're going for a sword, then?" Gwaine said, sliding down from the cave to the valley behind them.

"Evidently those whose blood enters the cup become like living dead men," Merlin said. "There is a sword that can kill what is already dead at the bottom of the lake."

"That's –" Arthur thought for a moment, his eyes on his footing. "Twenty leagues away, and we're in hostile territory. If we go there first, there's no way we can get to Camelot before Morgause's army."

"Won't do any good to get there first and try to fight empty-handed," Gwaine returned. "So to speak."

Arthur drew a deep breath and let it out, thinking of the death that would stalk his kingdom. Commoners unlucky to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, knights and soldiers who hurried to an honorable defense, not knowing their attackers were unnaturally sustained by dark magic. So many would die, and there was nothing he could do.

"Even with the sword, you couldn't take on an army," Merlin said, half-turning to connect his gaze to Arthur's.

He nodded, knowing his friend was right. "We'll have to infiltrate the citadel, find the cup." And to do that, they would need the sword for defense.

"All three of us." Gwaine let out a melodramatic sigh as the horses came into view.

Arthur startled, fingers finding the hilt of his sword, before recognizing the druid that stood at the heads of their three mounts. Telling himself he _wasn't_ surprised that Iseldir had come from the cave to have the last word.

"Your mounts are refreshed and strengthened, Prince Arthur," the druid said. "You will find new provisions packed as well."

"Thank you," Arthur said. Trying not to be surprised at that, either. Because of course the blonde witch with a thousand immortal warriors was probably a far worse enemy for the druids and the whole land, than Uther Pendragon.

"If there is anything else I can do for you…" Iseldir added, relinquishing reins as both Arthur and Gwaine swung up to their saddles.

Merlin stepped closer to the druid to say to him in a low voice, "How soon could you get a message to Haldor?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The lake was the same. Serenity ruffled by lazy wind-whispered ripples. The sounds of the forest, casual and unworried, around and behind them, the lapping of waves teasing the edge of the pebbled verge gritting under their boots.

This time, however, Gwaine had no desire to joke. Not to provoke a shy story or curious admission from Merlin, not to annoy Arthur's tension into breaking.

"What now?" Arthur said, studying the surface of the lake. Hands on his hips and an inscrutable look on his face.

"There's a boat." Merlin pointed.

And there was proof of something Gwaine had suspected for some time - that the friendship worked both ways. Arthur had changed and learned from Merlin; so had Merlin, from Arthur. The only emotion the younger man betrayed was calm patience. Resignation, almost.

"That boat will tip with more than one of us," Gwaine observed. The weight of a man _and_ his pack might scuttle the tiny thing. "Who's going?" A pace behind them, further from the shore, he watched Arthur and Merlin look at each other.

"It's your sword," Merlin said, after a moment.

"It's your girl," Arthur responded.

Merlin sighed and gazed over the water again. "She was once," he said. "For a few days. She might have been, if not for…"

Gwaine's mind supplied, _Curse, death, magic_.

"Now, it's… something else. A friendship, that's special and unique."

Gwaine bit his tongue to keep it from an irreverent and inappropriate quip – _magical_ – at the further unspoken assumption, _but that's all_.

"You know," Arthur remarked, making no move for the tiny craft bobbing on its anchoring line at the water's edge. "When I saw my mother –" Merlin nodded in shared recollection.

 _Twenty-six, Merlin…_

"Afterwards, I found that I was glad to have had the opportunity. To see her once, to make that connection, to have the memory. Even though I knew I couldn't keep her – spirit or vision or whatever that was – it did help me to miss her a little less. Not more."

Gwaine could see the corner of Merlin's smile, and it somehow made him feel better, too. "Yeah, I know what you mean," the sorcerer said.

Arthur gave a nod and stepped down to the little boat, his weight causing the bottom to grind down on the edge of the lake-bed. He gave it a little shove-and-kick, far enough out to float without getting his boots wet, and as he lowered himself to kneeling, he called over his shoulder, "No paddle."

"No need," Merlin called back.

Gwaine glanced at him as the little craft skimmed placidly toward the middle of the lake, but saw no telltale golden gleam of magic performed. He did see Merlin's eyes widen on the sorcerer's gasp of amazement – and spun to see the lake-surface cleaved by a shining silver blade, emerging point-first from the depths.

Glistening wet, droplets pattering all around, the hilt appeared, clasped by a pale hand – pale arm – but that was all. Nothing further of the supernatural bearer of the blade could be seen.

Gwaine noted Arthur's jerk of surprise, but he believed, watching from behind, that the prince's attention was focused on the sword, not on peering into the water to discover more of its secrets.

Beside him, Merlin sighed – but it was not in disappointment, and there was a smile on his face. "And isn't that ironic," he murmured.

"What is?" Gwaine said.

"That _she_ gives a sword to _him_. Sometimes destiny has a rather twisted sense of humor."

Gwaine gave up trying to understand his young friend.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…

"So about this sword," Arthur said.

Merlin hid a smile, in case his prince glanced over as they rode. Probably they wouldn't arrive at the ruins by nightfall, but that refuge was out of their way if they were trying to reach Camelot as soon as possible anyway. One long, grueling day it had taken to reach the lake of Avalon, and this the second one was quickly drawing to a close. At least their detour had taken them further away from the path of Morgause's army. Even with the sword, there was no reason to tempt danger.

It amused him, though, that Arthur could not seem to help his fascination with the sword. Whether that was due to his knowledge of the inexplicable magic that had kept and returned the blade, or to some intrinsic quality of the magic that had forged it, Merlin couldn't tell. But the prince rode with his hand on or near the hilt, often glanced down at it, and had already denied Gwaine the favor of handling it. Unprompted by Merlin – who'd been gifted the possession of Arthur's former sword - and it was more serious and mature than a simple, _No it's mine_.

"How did the sword get into the lake to begin with?" Arthur said.

Merlin set his jaw self-consciously and fixed his gaze on the coarse brown hair of his mount's mane as he followed the prince. How much had they heard of his conversation with Freya? It had been good to see her, as Arthur had recalled about his own opportunity with his mother – though he did rather envy Arthur his chance to _embrace_ his lost loved one…

"I put it there," he admitted.

Gwaine made noises of incredulity, like he was laughing or coughing – Merlin twisted in the saddle to see that he'd caught his friend mid-swig at his waterskin. " _What_? That's twenty-seven, that is."

Merlin faced forward – and met Arthur's keen glance back. "I think I have to agree with Gwaine on this one, Merlin," the prince said mildly. "The whole story, if you please?"

"It was… over three years ago," Merlin said. "Maybe six months after I came to Camelot. You remember – the night your father recognized you officially his heir. The stranger in black rode his horse right through the window to throw a gauntlet in challenge."

Gwaine swore. "I didn't know a horse would do that."

"I remember," Arthur said, sounding grim. "That knight killed Pellinor and Owain before I issued my own challenge. And no one believed I could win."

Merlin let a moment and the echo of old disappointment pass by. "That knight was a wraith, Arthur," he said quietly. "A corpse raised with dark magic to do exactly what it did – kill and demoralize until the Pendragons were defeated and Camelot brought to its knees."

"That black knight," Arthur said slowly, "was already dead? Did Gaius – yes, of course he knew… did he tell my father?"

"Probably," Merlin said, glancing over as his mount drew even with Arthur's. "I expect that was why he had Gaius slip you a sleeping draught so he could take your place in the match."

Arthur rolled his eyes before closing them briefly and releasing a sigh Merlin saw rather than heard. And he was glad Gwaine was holding his tongue, just now.

"I didn't know he was going to do that," Merlin told him quietly. "I heard a story – a legend – about a blade burnished in a dragon's breath, able to destroy something already dead."

Arthur's mouth quirked as if he were trying to keep from smiling. "And you knew where you could find a dragon."

Merlin cringed slightly, glancing back to see Gwaine's wry grin and shake of his head as he mouthed, _Dragon_.

"So you stole a sword from the armory –" Arthur said, checking the hilt as if he might recognize one that had gone missing three years ago.

"I didn't!" Merlin said indignantly. "I asked Gwen, and she gave me the best one her father ever made!" His outburst was followed by silence, except for the sounds of their horses' hooves, and the forest around.

"Is it." Arthur's eyes and free hand were occupied with his new weapon again. "Is it really."

"How did it end up in the lake, then?" Gwaine said.

"Um." Merlin shrugged. "I was waiting to give it to Arthur before his duel, and Uther came instead."

That caught Arthur's attention. "This sword is the only reason he won?"

Behind them, Gwaine snickered. "Your father used an enchanted sword and he didn't even know it."

"And Kil- um, the dragon was really angry when he found out." Merlin caught Arthur's half-hearted glare at his almost-slip into using the dragon's name. He guessed that Arthur accepted his association with the ancient creature without approving of it. Merlin wasn't really looking forward to the day when they'd need Kilgarrah again, and he'd have to confess to even more. "No one is supposed to use it but Arthur. So I put it where no one could find it."

"In the lake," Gwaine finished.

Arthur held up one gloved hand, reining in his mount. They followed his lead, though Merlin didn't immediately see a reason for it. But the prince gave no further signal, simply dismounted and dropped rein to prowl forward. Merlin and Gwaine exchanged a glance, then did the same.

He didn't see the bodies until he was almost even with Arthur, standing with his arms crossed. Half a dozen, in Camelot red. A patrol. Absolutely slaughtered – and there were no enemy bodies, either.

Gwaine spat a curse Merlin had never heard before – but he agreed with.

A moment later, Arthur dropped his arms, alerting to some other noise, or movement that escaped Merlin; once again, he and Gwaine followed, circling the little clearing where the bodies lay. Merlin itched to check them, but they were too still to be breathing, anymore.

His back to an enormous oak, Arthur drew his sword, carefully quiet – Merlin heard the crunching footfalls then, and readied his magic, leaving Arthur's now-spare blade in his belt. Gwaine's fingers curled around the hilt of his weapon, and all three took a breath.  
Arthur spun around the tree already dropping the first strike; Merlin side-stepped quickly, empty hands raised to center and direct magic – immortal soldiers could not be defeated but they could be _escaped_ – these were not Cenred's men.

The dragon-breathed sword struck and rung against the other; both men halted in their tracks in the shock of recognition. Merlin felt his own grin stretch his face.

"Lancelot!" Arthur exclaimed, at once happy and incredulous. He eased back, dropping and then sheathing his weapon; Lancelot did the same.

"My lord." Lancelot gave a small bow. "I know I'm violating the terms of my banishment, but –"

"Me, too, mate," Gwaine offered, at the same time as Arthur spoke, wryly humorous.

"What am I going to do, arrest you? I'm glad to see you, Lancelot, however you came to be here."

"Merlin sent a message," Lancelot explained, shaking the hand Arthur offered.

"Through the druids?" the prince questioned in the same dry tone; Merlin shrugged and Arthur faced Lancelot's companion – a big man with a square jaw, a serious expression, and a bristle of light-brown hair shorn closer than Gwaine's beard – as Lancelot turned to Merlin.

Merlin heard the stranger introduce himself as Percival, and Arthur correct him with an invitation to drop the use of titles, as Lancelot bypassed Merlin's offered hand for a closer and more personal greeting.

"I thought you were dead," his old friend said in a low voice. "There were rumors – the prince of Camelot's manservant, executed for magic."

"I'm sorry," Merlin told him, as Lancelot released him from the embrace. "It's kind of a long story –" behind him, Gwaine snorted as he waited his turn for introductions – "there aren't that many people who know the truth, either."

"But Arthur is one of them, now?" Lancelot said, meaning more than just the truth of the escaped execution. And Merlin couldn't help another grin.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

 **A/N: The reason this is late, is because "The Coming of Arthur" demanded a full chapter for each part – though it's done, so the next update will be quicker. "The Darkest Hour" will be its own chapter, and the last one, as "The Wicked Day" was used for the epilogue (already posted). And the story is over! Hopefully the chronology was not too confusing…**

 **Also I should say, some dialogue from the ep. Scrying spell from ep.1.3 "The Mark of Nimueh". And, if** _ **anyone**_ **catches the one tiny Monty Python line – virtual treat of their choice!**

Wolfdragon: Glad you liked this story and this arc where everyone knows! I did wonder whether interest would taper off once the opening action of Merlin's arrest-trial-execution was over, but I guess I managed to keep it from becoming boring! As far as Leon goes, he's kind of a background character mostly, but I'm planning to work in a bit with him in this episode…

Kirsten: Thanks for reviewing again! I'm assuming your comment on the Arthur/Merlin relationship refers to Arthur's perception of Merlin – sometimes that he's a complete stranger, and sometimes that Arthur remembers he knows him so well. With this story, I wanted to show that even though Arthur didn't know the magic, he did know everything else about his friend, and never really doubted that. So it would be the magic that Arthur has to get used to – and in this situation where they're not together daily to chat about it, Arthur would still feel a bit lost in knowing what to expect from Merlin's magic. But then, they can get right back into the question at the moment and still work together pretty well. And, I do feel proud when I can get the gist of a comparison in quite a short sentence: that Orryn was an attendant, but Merlin a companion.

Mab: Thanks so much for the review, the compliments, and the encouragement! Same to you!


	24. The Coming of Arthur

**Episode 3.13 "The Coming of Arthur" (part 2)**

The sun was just setting as Arthur led the other four over the last hill and Camelot came into view, dying golden light still illuminating the highest of the white towers. But slipping, and fading.

No sign of movement in the deathly-quiet streets of the lower town. No sign of the army either – which meant the citadel had already fallen. Arthur swallowed and adjusted his grip on the sword at his hip, the cold of despair held at bay by its subtly confident hum – reminding him oddly of the handful of moments in years past, when Merlin had shed his servant's idiocy to sound subtly confident also - and the sound of his companions abandoning their mounts to settle behind him.

Merlin he almost expected in that position, at this point. Though his willingness to risk opposing the sorceress for a kingdom that currently forbade his existence was still hard for Arthur to understand, completely. His magic did give him an edge – but then again, Merlin facing Morgause was probably a fairly close comparison to Gwaine or Lancelot facing an immortal soldier.

Percival was an unknown. Skills, motivation, personality. But Lancelot trusted him, and he'd agreed to accompany them even after hearing the stark truth of their situation. A strong sense of loyalty, then, or justice.

Gwaine slid up beside him. "Morgause doesn't really have Camelot, until she has you," the outlaw observed. Arthur still wanted to shake his head over how this man treated an anticipated battle like he was discussing a short walk to a lively tavern on a balmy night. "And she knows you have Merlin. She'll be waiting for you."

Arthur made a noise of agreement. Like their assault on the castle of Fyrien, getting _in_ wasn't going to be the problem, he was afraid. And maybe Gwaine was thinking along the same lines.

"There isn't a labyrinth, I don't suppose –" his grin flashed white in the gathering twilight – "but Merlin has showed me the tunnel that leads to the dungeon-level."

Arthur turned his head to look at his roguish friend, and behind him, Merlin murmured, "Long story."

He couldn't help snorting. "All right," he decided. Those tunnels were narrow; it wouldn't be hard to hold off even several dozen immortals, if it was necessary. Much safer for the three of them who had no magical defense. "You know you can't kill them, but you can trap them in the cells. If Morgause has taken any captives, they're your allies as well if you release them."

Both Gwaine and Lancelot – he glanced from one to the other – should be able to recognize some of the knights, anyway, and he didn't think any of his men would object to being freed by an illegal fugitive, under the circumstances.

"Take and hold as much of the lower levels of the citadel as you can, but retreat if necessary," he concluded.

"And you and Merlin?" Gwaine said.

"We'll go first to Elyan's," Arthur said. "If he's there, he ought to be able to give us some information."

He heard Merlin muttering an explanation to Lancelot, Elyan's occupation and relationship to Guinevere – and for a moment was nearly overwhelmed. Remembering the closeness between Lancelot and Guinevere, imagining the horror of the assault for her as the physician's assistant, wondering about her safety – his father – Gaius –

"We'll see you soon, sire." Lancelot's voice broke him from the discouraging reverie.

Arthur held his friend's gaze of quiet nobility for a moment, then nodded. And exchanged another such look with Percival the newcomer. No words, just an understanding unique to a fighting man. You do your job, I'll do mine.

Gwaine laughed, shifting in his crouch as he prepared to lead the other two toward the northwest. "If they start dying when we run 'em through, we'll know you two were successful," he said.

Arthur slapped his shoulder, throat too tight to speak, and watched the three disappear into the gloom. He wasn't sure if he was ready to mount an assault of his own, right this very minute, even with this sword and the young sorcerer breathing and waiting silently, patiently, watchfully at his side, but –

No reason to delay. Or retreat.

"For the love of Camelot," he whispered, and Merlin smiled.

It was a good thing Arthur had worn no distinguishing insignia. And that Merlin still had his cloak. Even though Morgause's men weren't exactly vigilant, they did have to conceal themselves more than once from a troop of enemies marching the streets in the lower town, nearly all obscured to knuckles and noses.

The battle felt very recent to Arthur. Bodies littered the streets – all dead, though, the injured either already aided or expired – fires burned unchecked. Houses dark as the survivors hid, and the stench of blood and fear thick. It made him sick to the bottom of his soul, and more than once he pressed against a wall to keep from falling to his knees. Rubbing his eyes clear of tears he would blame on the smoke if Merlin said–

A glance back showed that Merlin's pale face was tear-stained also; the younger man hadn't bothered checking the emotion he wasn't ashamed to show. Not this time.

When they reached the street where the forge stood dark, Arthur paused in a doorway to steady his breathing and attempt to slow his heart-rate. He feared to discover the worst; it felt like the morning he'd gone to look for Leon and stepped into the circle of Merlin's pyre instead. He was suddenly, terribly, desperately grateful for the one hand his young friend rested gently on his shoulder. It gave his courage _heart_.

 _I could not do this alone._

Merlin's touch, light and almost casual, said, _You don't have to_.

Arthur strode across the street and through the door of the little house, Merlin just behind.

Dark. And quiet. And for a moment that despair reached for him again, black and cold… Then Merlin spoke, and a flame jumped into existence just above his palm, lighting the main room – in absolute chaos – a shift of rubble, and they both spun as Elyan began his charge, brandishing the fire-iron.

"No!" Arthur hissed, holding up his hand.

Elyan jerked to an unnatural halt in the temporary hold of Merlin's magic, a moment before his dark eyes cleared to recognition. " _Oh_."

All three of them, Arthur thought, breathed a sigh of relief. He said, dreadfully expectant, "Guinevere?"

Her brother shook his head, lowering the poker. "I don't know. She was in the citadel already when the army attacked this morning. The knights fought – and some of us, but…" He kept shaking his head.

Arthur understood, and blamed no one; he remembered the feeling of suddenly realizing that his opponent was an undying skeleton. "What about my father? Do you know?"

"I heard rumors," Elyan said. "The witch holds the king imprisoned. People say…" he hesitated, glancing at Merlin, then went on, "they say she'll execute him publically, tomorrow. With fire."

That possibility did not have a chance to take hold of Arthur; Merlin said, with quiet confidence, "She won't." Arthur glanced back at him, and he added, "She'll hold your father to lure you."

Exactly as she'd lured him with Guinevere's brother at Fyrien; Arthur would not have guessed that the witch would turn out to be _predictable_. Arthur guessed his father would be in the cells then, and hoped that Gwaine, Lancelot, and Percival would affect his rescue, too. It made him hope that, if Guinevere had been spared during the fighting, and discovered – her life would be safe then, too. At least until he was caught.

He gritted his teeth together and drew himself up. And _that_ , would not happen.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin would have guessed, out of the two of them, that he better knew his way about the citadel and had more experience sneaking, than Arthur did.

But the prince surprised him.

Merlin's magic muffled the two enemies at the gate to prevent an alarm being raised, while Arthur's sword surprised them. And in turn, the three of them – Elyan had elected to follow in hopes of finding his sister – were surprised at the effect of the dragon-burnished sword.

It didn't even require a mortal blow, Merlin thought, blinking the after-image of a dual golden explosion from his eyes in the darkness. Only the touch of the blade – on skin only? Or maybe when blood was drawn? Or perhaps any wound in the area of the torso –

"Come on," Arthur hissed, yanking Merlin into movement once again with a handful of cloak. Merlin was struck – and gave a breathless laugh as he followed – by the conviction that the prince had almost added the term, _idiot_.

The three of them made it all the way to the physician's chambers without the use of Arthur's unique sword again. Ducking down behind the curve of this stairway, squeezing together for a heart-stopping moment in the shelter of this column. Three times Merlin's magic deflected the attention of the veiled intruders – a torch blown out, a tapestry billowing in a gust of wind, a barrel tipping over.

Merlin could feel Arthur's gaze on him, knowing his eyes had betrayed the surreptitious magic to the prince, and almost heard him say again, _You've done this before._ A bit disapproving.

He was quite sure, under Arthur's reign, the guards would be alert to such use of magic, and trained to recognize it.

The room was just the same as Elyan's forge, and Merlin felt his heart constrict to find it cold, dark, and cluttered by careless violence.

"Gaius?" he whispered, stalking to the middle of the room, heedless of broken shards and spills underfoot, daring to light the candle still in place on the work-table with a spark of magic.

Behind him, Arthur hissed a warning, and he spun to see the prince and the blacksmith step to either side of the closet where Gaius stored blankets, rags, bandages, extra crockery, the panels of its door indistinguishable from the wall around. They lifted their weapons – and Arthur yanked the door open.

To reveal the shelves removed, and both the physician and his young assistant sheltering startled in the small space.

All five of them muffled cries of relief and gladness. Merlin left Gwen to greet her brother and her prince with quiet sobs and tight embraces to throw his own arms around his oldest friend.

"I am so glad to see you," he said.

"Oh, Merlin," Gaius breathed, patting his back. "When Morgause attacked – and it became plain her men could not die – we feared the worse. I knew Arthur would take you with him, so I _hoped_ – but Uther believes his son failed to secure the Cup because he'd been killed."

"No, just delayed," Merlin said, almost cheerfully. The death and destruction all around was terrible – another confrontation with the witch possible at any moment and probably eventually inevitable, but to know that his closest friends were alive and well and fighting back the way each of them was able – it gave him purpose and determination. "Lancelot is here. He and Gwaine and another friend have gone to the dungeons to rescue any captured knights – and I guess the king. We have come for the Cup."

"It needs to be emptied of the blood inside," Gaius said.

Merlin was nodding before he was finished speaking. "The druids told us," he said. "The Fisher King's trinket led us to… a very powerful blade that can slay the dead." He couldn't help smiling as he remembered the day he'd almost confessed to this particular deed to the old physician.

Gaius' eyebrow rose as it had done, that day, and he turned to look at Arthur's hip. "The one you _didn't_ enchant?" he said.

Before Merlin could answer, Arthur's voice rose above the murmur of exchanged relief and comfort. "Elyan, stay here with Guinevere and Gaius. Merlin -" he turned - "if you're ready, we'll try our destiny once more."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine had not been surprised at the sudden appearance of another stranger who'd been close friends with Merlin – the young sorcerer was just that sort of person. He wasn't even that surprised that the newcomer had been banished – Camelot was just that sort of place, under Uther – or that he'd returned at Merlin's request.

He was, however, surprised by the answer to his question, _So how'd you meet our Merlin, then._

"A _griffon_ , by damn," he said, pausing before the hidden grate that protected the secret tunnel. He supposed he recognized the spell Merlin must have used on Lancelot's weapon, too. "Huh. That's a helluva lot more heroic than a _pixie_."

"I'm sorry," Lancelot said quietly, and Gwaine heard a puzzled frown in his voice. "Are we comparing –"

"Nah," Gwaine interrupted. "Never mind. Merlin and Arthur have got us both beat on campfire stories, I expect. This, _this_ is my problem." He put his hand on the grate, just visible in the falling darkness, and tried to shake it, with little success. "Last time I used Merlin to pick the lock, know what I mean?"  
"Percival?" Lancelot said, and shifted to make way for his big silent friend. Gwaine shifted too, uncomprehending but willing for any idea to work. The large shadow-shape obscured the grate almost completely, but Percival was focusing on the hinge-side, rather than the lock. Lancelot continued to Gwaine by way of explanation, "He's got some experience with stone-"

The big man made some violent movement of sustained strength, grunting his effort – the rasp-clang of metal on stone preceded the gasp-thud of the metal piece surrendering, dropping to the forest floor. Percival moved back to catch his breath, and Gwaine tested the opening.

"You sure you can fit through here?" he teased Percival, scraping his chest and back as he maneuvered into the tunnel and dropped to its floor.

"I've removed my sleeves for just such an occasion," Percival returned, and Gwaine bit his tongue to keep from laughing out loud. In his experience, such men didn't often have the brain to balance their brawn; he was pleased in this case to be wrong.

"Come on," he said, once the other two had joined him.

It was pitch black, and no Merlin to call the light of fire out of midair. Gwaine led the way slowly, carefully by feel – one hand on a wall, the other on the low curved ceiling to keep from hitting his head – shuffling as he heard the other two doing behind him. Soon enough, however, eyes straining in the dark caught the glimmer of faint light around the edges of the shield that covered the tunnel entrance, at the back of the prison-guards' arms-room.

Gwaine knelt cautiously at the opening, only a short pace in diameter, and shifted the shield enough to see that the light was diffused rather than direct, coming from the corridor beyond the arms-room, not the chamber itself. He sighed in relief, eased down from the tunnel, and held the shield for the other two to do the same without making any betraying noise. Percival was surprisingly agile for such a big man; Gwaine's respect for the ability of his friend's friend to choose his friends – no, no time for that now.

"Guards and keys probably at the far end," he said, as he stole a quick glance into the corridor. "At the foot of the stair."

"They can't die," Lancelot returned, "but they can be disarmed, bound, and gagged?"

"And locked into their own cell," Percival added with an incongruously little-boy kind of grin, flexing his big fingers.

"But without alerting any of their fellows up-stairs," Gwaine added. "Shall we check on the prisoners first?"

Taking their agreement as a given, he backed into the corridor, and signaled an all-clear, before continuing on to check the second hallway. Glancing back, he caught Lancelot's mouthed wish for _good luck_ , and nodded, before stepping forward.

No guards in sight, though the cells were packed with men in chainmail and red. It looked and smelled and sounded, more like an infirmary; Gwaine thought they were safer where they were, for the moment. Only a few took notice of him as he moved past, and of those, only one seemed to realize, he wasn't one of their enemy guards.

A man with battle-stained armor and a smearing of blood shading his curly hair even redder. He turned toward the bars and came alert in the same moment that Gwaine halted and retreated a step closer, recognizing him in return.

"Leon, isn't it," he said.

"Gwaine?" Leon said. "What on earth are you doing here?"

"Saving Camelot," Gwaine told him with a grin. "Want to help?"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

The room Arthur and Morgana had been taken to in Fyrien, the room Cenred and Morgause had chosen to occupy while waiting for them, had been a receiving chamber or public hall, he remembered.

And if she was still being predictable, Arthur figured the witch would not keep her magic goblet – a trophy more important and impressive than anything Arthur had managed to procure for his father over the years – hidden away in her private chamber. Nor would she risk so ostentatious a display as the courtyard or banquet hall – the busier the room, the more opportunities for accidents – which left only a few possibilities.

He hadn't figured on Merlin sensing the object, as he had the bracelet – with the sort of complete and helpless focus that jerked his whole body to a sudden stop and pointed him in a new direction entirely at a juncture of corridors.

"I can sense the Cup's power," the sorcerer gasped. "This way!"

As Arthur turned to follow him, he caught a dark flash of motion from the corner of his eye – one of the invaders, crossing the corridor further down. And whether that man was alerted by Merlin's voice or Arthur's movement, he reacted so swiftly Arthur's heart sank, even as the extraordinary blade in his hand leaped of it's own accord to meet his enemy's weapon.

Arthur was dressed plainly. Acting fairly normal – walking down a corridor, even with a weapon in his hand – not so unusual for someone who belonged. Which meant, Morgause's men, or at least the ones kept to guard the citadel corridors, were indeed expecting him.

And probably, Morgause was also expecting Merlin, this time.

Grimly he caught two attacks of his opponent on his blade before spinning past him to slash effectively across his back, and the enemy exploded soundlessly in a tatter of flame-edged scraps.

At least they weren't going to leave a trail of bodies.

Merlin was already at the next corner when Arthur caught him up, and waited for Arthur to sneak a peek to assess the situation.

Four men crowded into the doorway of the room his father used for private meetings and dinners. Not a single one of them alert, but rather rubbing shoulders with stolid boredom. He wondered briefly if their immortality took something of their _soul_ out of them – feelings or the capacity for intelligent or original thought – or if maybe Cenred's men were just that sort of dumb brute to begin with.

Either way, that room was clearly his and Merlin's destination. Aside from the symbolic disdain of Morgause choosing Uther's sanctum to house the focus of her victory, there was no way _four_ men guarded each and every room in the citadel.

Although, four.

"What do we do now?" Merlin whispered.

Arthur gave his head a single shake – they didn't really have time for strategy or circumvention – before striding out to attack.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Gwaine stepped out of the short passage between the two main prison-corridors, just into sight of the veiled guards packed into the space at the foot of the stairs like pickled eggs in a jar.

And whistled for their attention, before darting back the way he had come.

Indistinct shadows followed him, the muffled sound of running footfalls – half a dozen men, he guessed without looking - swords out, with a call of warning. But not realization. Gwaine slipped through the barred door at the end of the further hall, moments before Percival slammed it and held it shut against the efforts of their enemy – a well-placed spear from the arms-room kept him out of reach of their weapons.

"Stay there and don't move, eh?" he quipped.

They shouted, they cursed, as Gwaine panted and grinned, lending his strength to Percival's to keep the door closed. They turned in surprise as Lancelot slammed the opposite door – turning the abandoned key in the lock and essentially making the hall itself into a cell.

"Well done!" Gwaine called to him through the space, and between the agitated bodies of the trapped immortals. "Come around here and lock this one, then."

At his words the enemy soldiers redoubled their assault on the closed-but-unlocked door, but they got uncooperatively in each other's way. Percival's muscles bulged and Gwaine sweated and swore, and Lancelot hurried.

Gwaine drew his sword to menace their fingers, wondering aloud, "I wonder, if they're immortal, if you can still hack bits of them off," and cleared the way for Lancelot to lock the second door.

"There were three others," Lancelot informed them in a quiet, even voice between panting breaths.

"What did you do with –"

They rounded the corner to the main corridor between cells, and Gwaine had his answer. The last three immortal invaders were held – disarmed and gagged with their own veils – against the bars of the first cell by the inhabitants on the inside. Leon, among others.

"Ah, very good," Gwaine complimented him on his part of the plan.

"Keys?" Leon said, leaving the enforcement of the enemies' immobility to his companion-knights. Lancelot held them up and hurried forward. "Thank you."

"The friend of a friend," Gwaine told Leon with a wink, as the key rasped and the door screeched open. "Lancelot, have you met Arthur's finest – Sir Leon?"

"Glad to make your acquaintance," Lancelot said, a bit breathless still, as the knights still capable of fighting came out. At a signal from Sir Leon, they began binding their captives more securely.

"I'm not Arthur's finest," Sir Leon objected. "I think that title belongs to –" He cut off suddenly, and Lancelot looked up – and Gwaine grinned.

"He knows," he informed them both. "Isn't much of a secret anymore, our skinny-yet-powerful friend."

"Where's Arthur?" Leon asked.

Gwaine pointed upwards. "Going after Morgause and the cup. He wants us to secure these levels and –"

Leon took the key ring from Lancelot, headed for the open area at the bottom of the stairs where the guards would habitually spend most of their shift. There was another door, small and solid wood-plank, just off the bottom of the stair. Gwaine exchanged a look with Lancelot before they both followed; Percival remained behind to see that the last immortal was properly restrained – and perhaps to begin helping the injured.

"His Majesty," Leon explained, trying for a key that would fit that door.

"He won't be pleased to recognize us, mate," Gwaine warned the knight, who paused with another look at Lancelot, who shrugged.

"I'm not sure he will," Leon said carefully. "Recognize you, that is. But you can make yourselves scarce, if you prefer."

Gwaine grunted and headed for the steps. A moment later Lancelot followed. Too bad it wasn't so easily guarded as a trap door; the head of the stair seemed to open into a larger vaulted passage without even a door to close. He slowed his footsteps to prowling – no use alerting anyone by showing himself, but if more of those men came, he'd like as much warning as possible. Lancelot at his side did the same and silently, catching on quickly to what he was doing, and why.

Below them, they heard Leon's voice again. "No, my lord, a rescue. Not knights, but friends."

A lower murmur. Gwaine risked a glance over the handrail to see Uther, disheveled and gaunt but seemingly uninjured, make his way from the more isolated cell, focused on his step and Leon's supporting arm.

"Arthur lives, my lord," Leon said, evidently in response. "So I'm told, and I believe it. Your son will fight the witch – and he'll win."

Gwaine met Lancelot's eyes and grinned at the confidence apparent in the knight's tone. It seemed the noble men in Camelot were beginning to add up.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Three out of four wasn't bad, Arthur told himself as he shoved Merlin through the doors with his shoulder, lunging once more to keep the last immortal guard back. And as they slammed it shut and leaned against the inside to bar it together, he was suddenly reminded of the two of them holding the barricaded door against Morgause's undying Knights of Medhir.

She really was predictable. He was glad, this time, that he would not have to leave the room to attempt a single-handed defense or distraction – that he had a sword in hand that could kill these unnatural enemies.

Whether he remembered that situation too or not, Merlin grinned at him as they panted and pushed themselves upright.

To see that they were not alone in the room.

The table and chairs were gone, removed to make room for a stone plinth that supported an elaborate silver chalice – it seemed to radiate a red-gold light – and half a dozen defenders.

There was no time even to swear. Arthur leaped to attack – offensive speed being one of the few advantages he could use in this open space – Merlin's hand rose in the corner of his vision, and two of the six tumbled backwards a few paces. Not enough to jostle plinth or cup to falling, but it reassured Arthur that Merlin's magic would be an effective defense for him.

He had one moment to think, it felt oddly strange and yet familiar, facing enemies with Merlin's magic at his back, that he'd done it before, unknowing – The echo of the warning bell through corridors and closed doors was a distant concern.

Then thought submerged into instinct, act and react and fight for his life, his friends, his kingdom.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

When the warning bell began its clanging, Gwaine and Lancelot both flinched, and glanced upward, as if they could see it.

"What the hell are they doing," Gwaine hissed between his teeth, before their attention was snatched by the sound of running footsteps – booted feet, and lots of them.

"Give them a chance," Lancelot returned calmly. "They'll manage."

A wave of black-clad veiled invaders swarmed from the open vaulted doorway, and Gwaine and Lancelot instinctively rearranged themselves on the stairway, both to block it and to give each other space to fight.

"Before or after the rest of us are dead?" Gwaine shot back, then lifted his voice to warn the knight organizing their retreat on the level below them, while he could still spare breath for shouting. " _Leon_!"

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

They'd been fighting moments, only, but already Merlin was desperate.

"Get to the cup!" Arthur shouted, ducking a strike at his neck and pivoting to parry another.

"I can't!" he hollered back.

His magic wasn't working properly against the immortals. Attacks that ought to have blasted them all back into the wall only unbalanced a couple; only twice he'd managed to snatch a weapon away from its wielder's control for a moment. Enough to keep himself alive, not enough to significantly aid his prince.

And, the Cup was protected by enchantments. He could see the glow of latent magic, daring him to stretch out his hand and see what would happen. Because of course she _expected_ them to get this far, expected Merlin and Arthur to appear in the center of her occupied stronghold. The only thing that would take her by surprise was the sword.

Merlin thought, he needed that, to cut through the enchantments and reach the Cup. But, Arthur needed it to stay alive. And the lost seconds measured by his quickened heartbeat brought more fighters – and probably Morgause – closer.

"I need the sword!"

One second of attention divided between Cup and prince – and Arthur cried out in pain, stumbling to one knee and reaching his left hand around to his back.

Merlin twisted to face him, and leaned into furious attack, forcing the one veiled enemy who rushed him with sword upraised backwards into another who braced himself to deliver a killing blow. Arthur didn't hesitate, lunging up to his feet again to destroy both with a single slash and a whirlwind of fiery scraps of clothing and flesh that burned themselves out midair.

Two left. And Arthur injured…

An idea occurred, and Merlin shifted the focus of his magic, catching at the _clothes_ of the last two as they attacked Arthur in tandem, pulling and slowing and distracting, enough for the wounded prince to take first one… then the other.

The silence, after a thunder of clashing weaponry, was deafening. Arthur collapsed against the column, half-turning to meet Merlin's rush to his side – but determination was clear in his face. Their task wasn't complete, enemies would keep coming –

But for the Cup.

Arthur lifted his arm, his sword – and let go. The dragon-burnished blade floated through the air between their hands; Merlin caught it and spun to dash for the blood-filled, spell-covered goblet.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

A line of pain burned across his lower back, as Arthur allowed the supporting column to support him as well. The room was clear of enemies – for the moment – and whether emptying the cup meant the battle was over or just beginning on more even footing, that was their priority.

Merlin's head turned toward the cup even before his fingers closed completely around the hilt of the unique sword Arthur had tossed to him. For one heartbeat, as Arthur watched his friend sprint to this one first victory, he forgot.

The cup itself was not their enemy. Was not a _threat_.

At one end of the room, the double door was barred – but it was not the only entrance. Morgause appeared between the columns opposite Arthur, her attention solely on Merlin. Whose attention was solely on reaching and spilling that cup.

Arthur opened his mouth to scream a warning, but not quickly enough.

Morgause grasped thin air – lifting Merlin bodily several feet above the floor – and pulled her hand back.

" _Merlin_!" Arthur cried, as her magic yanked the sorcerer the full length of the chamber, his body rising to smash into the wall above and beside the door. He _felt_ the crack of bone against stone, heard Merlin's breath forced from his lungs in one terrible grunt of pain, before the witch allowed him to drop the distance to the floor.

Arthur's greatest fear was almost relieved when Merlin immediately squirmed and gasped – not broken, not unconscious – pushing the sword skittering across the stone floor as he writhed. Trying to right himself, trying to recover. Arthur hit his knees and reached out, as if he could help him from several paces' distance, but Morgause stepped closer, drawing Merlin's attention instantly.

"I have a feeling," she hissed, eyes alight with vindictive triumph, and hand outstretched. "I won't be seeing you again."

Merlin struggled as if trying to extend his own hand, his own magic – and another voice startled all three of them.

"No, you won't." A simple statement, dry and angry, followed by a bellowed spell.

The moment Morgause had turned her head, Arthur dove forward to reclaim the sword that had been made for him. Lifting tip, edge, hilt – it felt so heavy and so slow – as the old physician's magic knocked the witch backward.

Toward Arthur. And toward the immortal blade, which passed through her body with chilling ease. She whimpered in surprise, her head dropping, perhaps to see the blade emerging bloodied, then choked as he twisted it to make certain of her death.

Then dropped.

Beyond her, Merlin was on his feet, grim and pale but ready. Arthur made use of the way the corpse fell, pulling back on the hilt to free the sword, as Gaius called out a reminder and a warning. "Merlin! The cup!"

This time, Arthur couldn't summon the strength to toss the sword lightly to his friend. Merlin's fingers brushed his as he offered the hilt, the exchange swift and sure. The sorcerer's steps steadied as he approached the displayed goblet, as if physical pain was forgotten or erased – the sword was swung – the cup was cleaved as the blade struck it, blood splattering, two halves ringing out as they landed on the stone floor.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin's vision was a bit fuzzy around the edges.

He put his hand flat on the empty plinth – the hold of the protective enchantments weakened by the death of their caster, then cut by the dragon-blade – and let himself sink down. For a moment he simply breathed, and watched the pieces of the Cup – dull, plain silver now, _those_ enchantments cut also – rock, and drip.

"That'll need to be washed," he observed of the splash of obscene red across the stone of the wall and floor.

Arthur grunted under Gaius' examination, from across the room. "Are you all right?"

Merlin's neck seemed to creak as he turned his head, but he smiled across at his prince, tired and _sore_ but satisfied. "I have had better days," he told his friend. "And far worse ones, too. You?"

Arthur's breath hitched and he cast a glance that was nearly a glare over his shoulder at the physician, who pulled back his hand, fingertips reddened with blood. "He'll live," Gaius stated, pushing himself to his feet again, and going to the door to unbar it and check the corridor. "They're gone," he reported over his shoulder. "I would venture to guess, all of them."

Which meant the citizens of Camelot – servants, nobles, knights – would begin to venture out, begin to put their citadel and town and world into some semblance of order again. Part of him regretted that he wouldn't be staying to help. That he couldn't. Not with his own two hands, or with cheerful words of encouragement, or with magic.

Part of him only wanted to crawl into his thin bedroll on the dusty floor of the ruined castle and sleep until spring.

He stirred, bringing his feet beneath him, feeling the dull ache of bruises, and some sharper pains that warned him of the need to take it easy for a few days. Gaius was helping Arthur to do the same; the prince grimaced as he straightened, pale but also – Merlin thought – satisfied.

"I thought no one was supposed to use that but me," Arthur said of the sword in Merlin's grasp. And answered himself in the next breath. "I suppose you're an exception to that as well."

"I think I've got to take it with me, for now," Merlin told him, glancing down at the unique weapon. "I'm afraid if your father sees it…"

He'd been half afraid Arthur would argue to keep it. And if that had been the case… Merlin shook his head to clear it a bit. That would not have been right, he thought.

"I can't deny it's a fabulous weapon," Arthur admitted. "But that feeling of invincibility…" He shook his head also, golden hair sweat-streaked. "That's not something anyone should get used to, I think."

Merlin smiled, relieved that his prince seemed to understand. "I'll keep it safe, til you need it again."

Arthur let out a short, hard laugh. "I hope you're not offended if I say, I hope that's a very long time."

"I can wait," Merlin said. He was close enough now that Arthur could reach out and put a hand on his shoulder, as Gaius stood waiting with the cloak he'd shed just inside the doors.

"You're just going to leave me with all this mess to clear up," Arthur said, with that odd twist of expression that told Merlin, forced levity covered deeper feeling.

He put his hand on top of Arthur's. "This time, yeah. I'm sorry…"

"Well… I suppose you've finally earned a day off."

Merlin snorted, and it sent a twinge through his spine that warned him not to do that again. "You've got Elyan – and Percival, maybe, he looks strong –"

Arthur's grin was more natural. "And you've got Lancelot as well as Gwaine to hide out with, now."

"Come for dinner sometime," Merlin invited. "Bring Gaius and Gwen. Bring Leon."

"What makes you think I'd care to sit a saddle for two hours, only to eat your cooking, Merlin?" Gaius questioned him, tucking his chin to give him a mock-stern look. But a twinkle in his eyes met Merlin's grin.

"One of these days," Arthur agreed. He dropped his hand and Merlin turned away to his cloak and hood, and an extra pat of the old physician's hand on his back – that might have been a surreptitious examination, though neither of them said anything.

At the doorway, Merlin paused. He would go one direction, the shortest and easiest route out, before he was recognized. And Arthur would go the other – his father the king an immediate priority.

"Merlin." He turned back to meet his prince's eyes. Arthur gave him a nod, a show of respect and acknowledgment Merlin had only seen him make to knights and opponents on-field, after some significant or impressive show of skill. He'd never thought to receive it, himself, one fighter to another. One equal to another. Arthur added, "Well done."

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Arthur met Leon in the hall outside his father's bedchamber, and wordlessly clasped his knight's forearm. Again, so pleased to see that he'd survived, and reading the same relief on Leon's blood-smeared face.

"You're all right, sire?"

"Only a shallow cut. I told Gaius he could stitch it later – there are others worse wounded that need his attention first."

"Hm. Perhaps his assistant might spare the time." Arthur arched an eyebrow, but Leon's expression remained serenely innocent.

"Gwaine and Lancelot?"

"Both uninjured. Probably they were recognized, but I can't see anyone complaining of their help. I think they took off half an hour ago or thereabouts, back down the tunnel. Gwaine said the grate at the forest end needs attention."

Arthur snorted, feeling the pull of the cut across his two lower ribs on the left side of his back. And the burn of his eyes, as he closed them. What _didn't_ need attention?

"That new man Percival volunteered to repair the stone – I suppose he's how they got in? – and probably Elyan as blacksmith can help him."

"Percival's still here?"

"He's helping carry injured up from the dungeon-level. We have really appreciated his strength. Good fighter, too."

Arthur made a noise of agreement; Leon seemed to read more into it, and understand.

"Excuse me then, sire. There are things that need my attention, and if you don't mind my saying so, it would be a good idea for you to get some rest before too long. Camelot won't be put back together in a single night – or the next day."

Arthur nodded. It would be a process, long and hard for all of them. But worth it in the end. As Leon began to move away down the hall, Arthur pushed open the door to his father's bedchamber.

He found the king in a chair by the window, huddled in a blanket whose rich velvet contrasted with the startling simplicity of the white shirt and dark trousers beneath. Clean and fine, but his father was always dressed as if for a public audience. It caught Arthur by surprise and he hesitated, until Uther looked up – and a moment later, nodded for the hovering servant to leave them alone.

There was a worrying vacancy of expression on his face as Arthur joined him on a companion chair, where they were nearly knee-to-knee, but his eyes were _aware_ , if pain-shadowed, and his voice steady when he spoke.

"Arthur." The one word was greeting, reprimand, and apology.

"Yes, father." He hurried to add, "I am sorry I wasn't able to get to the cup before Morgause did, I'm sorry I wasn't here to help defend Camelot when the army attacked-"

"Arthur." Also a very effective request to silence; he obeyed. "I thought you might be dead. And instead, they tell me you single-handedly defeated the witch and destroyed her army."

"I had help," he corrected softly. And wondered if now would be a good time to mention his idea, of rewarding those who deserved it – lifting banishments, at least, if not bestowing knighthoods. Lancelot himself was the prime example of why common-born fighters ought to be allowed the highest honor and responsibility, also. Especially considering their losses after this attack.

"You were injured?" his father continued.

He decided to delay the discussion until another time. Because a disagreement was likely, before he convinced his father of the merits of the idea – if he ever did. "Only slightly," he said.

"The witch is dead."

"Yes."

"And the Cup of Life?"

"Destroyed." And Arthur would never forget the sight of his former servant, his friend, his sorcerer – wielding that ethereal blade with the grace and deadliness of a born swordsman.

"Ah." The king nodded. Arthur guessed he would have preferred another treasure locked into the vaults, but this was good enough.

He ventured, "Are you all right, Father?" He'd already been reassured that Uther was uninjured, suffering no more than deprivation of food and water and comfort and freedom for the day – and no less than the belief that he was a childless failure doomed to a horrific death.

Uther settled back into the blanket, into the embrace of the padded chair, and shifted his gaze to the window. Unseeing, as it was a moonless midnight; a pang of regret took Arthur by surprise at the thought of Merlin having to make his way to a home more distant, more lonely, and less comfortable than the little room off the physician's quarters.

"She said –" Uther inhaled with a hiss and a shiver – "things to me. She told me lies, about you, and… others." Morgana, probably. And Merlin. Though what Morgause might have told him was probably fairly close to _truth_ , Arthur was happy enough for his father not to believe it, after all. "Magic is untrustworthy, Arthur. It will betray you every time."

People are untrustworthy, he thought but didn't say. Now was not the time, any more than it had been on the night of Morgana's death. And maybe it never would be, for his father.

Briefly he wondered, how he would have reacted in his father's place, with Merlin as the wielder of the magic, instead of Nimueh. But he couldn't imagine it. Couldn't think of Merlin agreeing to perform something dangerous or unknown on someone he loved. Couldn't see himself not listening to Merlin's warnings.

"She's gone, now," he said aloud. "And Cenred our enemy."

That caught his father's attention. "Dead as well?" he said, for clarification. "Ah… The land is one step closer to peace." He put his hand on Arthur's, patted it twice in a rare show of affection and approval. "Well done."


	25. Just Before Dawn

**Episode 4.1-2 "Just Before Dawn"**

Samhain, and close on to midnight.

Arthur slouched in his seat at his father's right hand, there but not really _there_. Perhaps he'd had a bit too much wine; if so, he blamed Orryn. The man must have a head like a rock for drinking, himself, with what he seemed to expect Arthur to be able to handle.

The feast celebrated not only the holiday, but their recovery from Morgause's attack, a fortnight past, and though Cenred's land was still leaderless and contested, at least Odin hadn't made any move to take advantage of Camelot's briefly unsettled state.

Drinking and laughing and music. Full bellies and laughter.

Arthur wished he was somewhere else. A place where the table didn't block him from the rest of the room, where he could join freely in conversation and jokes, instead of limiting himself to the select few at the head table, or those bold or obsequious enough to approach him.

No. He shoved his chair back and rose, drawing the attention of his father and visiting uncle, though they said nothing. Was he crown prince or wasn't he? Surely he was free to mingle with the guests if he chose.

Leon, attentive as always, half-stood as he passed behind the side table. "Sire?"

"I'm fine, Leon," he said. "Just stretching my legs. You're enjoying the feast?"

"Yes, my lord."

Of course he was. Leon made the best of his situation, no matter what it was, feasting or fighting. Arthur wished he could be so contented, but something was missing and tonight, he knew exactly what it was. And, that he couldn't have it.

"Good evening, Gaius," he said, next encountering the old man with a sedate half-goblet of wine.

"My lord." Gaius bowed and hesitated briefly. But Arthur said nothing further, only shifted his weight to signal his intention to keep moving; the physician turned back to his conversation with Geoffrey.

Passing behind a column, Arthur glimpsed an approaching form – and couldn't believe his good fortune. Even if it was fleeting. He caught her as she passed, startling her as he tucked her into the shadow of the column beside him.

"Oh, Arthur," Guinevere exclaimed in a whisper, slapping his chest lightly. "You frightened me."

"I'm sorry." He released her, remembering, but she didn't move away.

"It's all right, I just thought…" She hesitated, and he couldn't see her expression, there in the shadow.

"What is it?"

"It's embarrassing – and I might be wrong anyway, but… your uncle. He keeps _watching_ me, for a moment I was worried…"

Arthur snorted. "Don't worry about him. He's going home next week."

Points of light sparked in her eyes as she tilted her head to look at him. "What's wrong, Arthur? This is supposed to be a celebration – you're not happy?"

He released his breath in a sigh. "Just… today. The feast and the holiday. There are a lot of memories. And regrets."

"Morgana?" she whispered, understanding; her dark eyes were limpid with emotion.

"And Merlin. I wish…" He trailed off, then asked, "Where's Elyan, tonight?"

"With them." She watched him, not following the reason for his change of subject.

"Why didn't you go, too?" he asked. Surely they'd invited her – even if she would probably be stuck with the cooking if she went. "You could've taken the chance to see…"

"Gwaine?" she joked into the pause of his sudden cowardice.

"Merlin?" he offered instead.

She smiled. "I'll see him tomorrow, or the day after, I expect. He was going to get Gaius some – never mind, that doesn't matter."

Courage, he'd been called. So he let it out. "Lancelot?"

She understood. And in the moment before she spoke, Arthur realized how very close they were still standing. "We were going to be honest with each other, remember?" Throat dry, he only nodded. "Once, I might have. But a lot of time has passed since then, a lot of things have happened, and he… never told me how he felt. Never asked me how I felt. Just… made the decision for both of us."

He realized that her hand still lingered against his shirt-front, just over his heart; his crept up to twine with it.

"If I choose to wait, and hope," she said, looking at their fingers, joined together. "Then I choose to wait and hope."

Again, he wished he was anywhere but a crowded banquet hall. "Consider yourself kissed," he told her, and she smiled in a way that had him vowing to himself, he'd find a way for the two of them to spend some time alone and together. Preferably quite soon.

But the shuffling and growing quiet of the room alerted him, and he came out from behind the column to see that his father had risen from his seat – cueing everyone else to rise also – for the midnight toast. He was aware that Guinevere emerged from the opposite side of the column, demure and unruffled – but her eyes were bright and the color in her cheeks a shade richer.

"This is the time of year," Uther declared into the rustling stillness of the banquet hall, "when we feel the closest to the spirits of our ancestors. It is a time to remember those we have lost… to celebrate their passing."

One of these days, Arthur promised himself, as his father continued with his speech. One of these days he'd sit to feast and talk and joke with Merlin and Gwaine – Lancelot and Percival – Elyan and Guinevere – even, he'd bring Gaius and Leon, as Merlin had suggested. That round table in the ruined castle would be perfect, he thought.

Because this year, after all, he hadn't lost nearly as much as he'd gained.

He lifted his goblet in whole-hearted salute.

…..*….. …..*….. …..*…..

Merlin wondered when the castle ruins had last been so rowdy.

Nearly midnight. He hadn't had as much to drink as Elyan or Lancelot – who hadn't had as much as Percival or Gwaine – who seemed intent on drinking their biggest friend under the table. Merlin was beginning to suspect it couldn't be done – but then again, Percival was always so quietly self-contained and Gwaine always so lively and talkative, it was difficult to tell just _how_ drunk either might be.

Samhain. A time of remembering and celebrating those who had already passed beyond the veil. A fortnight ago, he'd gotten the chance to see the girl he had loved – for a few days only, and more than two years ago, now. See her smile, hear her voice. Know that she was content, where she was. Able to see him, the way people always wondered if lost loved ones could. Maybe even, he'd be allowed to see her again someday…

Though, it was likely, only in another time of great need. He called to mind the sword, in the setting where he'd placed it for Arthur. The quiet sun-flecked hollow, the patient stone. Ready, but ready to wait many long seasons, if necessary. As he was.

He remembered other loved ones, lost. His father, and Will – taken too soon, maybe, but he'd been with them in those last moments, spoken to them, said goodbye. Their spirits would be welcome, he thought.

"It's Merlin's turn!" Gwaine's shout roused him. "Come on, my magic friend! Stand and give us your best –"

"Your shortest –" Percival corrected, with the little-boy grin that split his square-jawed face.

"Your best and shortest speech!"

"Go on, then, Merlin," Elyan added, and Lancelot was already leaning forward in his own chair to prod Merlin to his feet.

"Give us a few words of wisdom, do," he teased gently.

"Very well." Merlin stood and lifted his cup. "Here's to friends, gone but never lost. Here's to friends we've yet to make. And here's to friends who'll risk their lives – or just a splitting headache – to make sure that we get home all right!"

Laughter, cheering – jeering – joking – and though his perception of the movement of his companions indicated their noise-level continued unabated -

Silence.

Merlin's hand was frozen in his toast. His eyes drawn two feet to Elyan's right, in the center of the floor.

Where she stood.

"Emrys," she breathed. Whispered, called, chillingly slow and sure as death.

She looked an old woman. Cloaked and hooded, so his attention remained on her face. Drawn and gray as a corpse, her eyes like live coals that burned the skin around an unhealthy red.

"Emrys, do you know me?" Each word slow and deliberate enough to send a separate chill up his spine. "I am the Cailleach, the gatekeeper to the spirit world. I have long anticipated our meeting tonight – though it shall be our only, now. And that is your reward, though you understand not, what for. Sacrifice… courage… truth… patience. Peace between us this Samhain night, Emrys. And ever after."

Weird and dreadful did not mean malicious. It was not her fault she was not human, nor that her only association was with the dead; he felt she meant no harm, even as he could not quite escape the deathly cold that paralyzed him at her presence.

She gave him a smile full of triumph and despair, and a little bow, and vanished.

The returning heat and noise of the room hit him like a storm's wave, overwhelming, drowning him in the worry of his friends – they had _noticed_ , even if he hadn't realized it til this moment – making his lungs burn as if he'd tried to inhale the air of a furnace.

"Catch him, he's going down!"

"Watch his head – lay him over here. That's it."

"What d'you suppose he saw?"

" _Tonight_ , mate? I think we don't want to know."

"Merlin, can you hear me? You're going to be all right."

"He's so cold, that can't be good - someone get him an extra blanket."

He was horizontal, and felt himself incapable of movement, but wondered hazily why that should matter. He watched the flicker of cookfire – bonfire – and scrounged candles, on the ceiling of the chamber, heard his friends busy caring for him.

"Someone get his boots."

"Here, I've mulled his wine. Hold his head."

He felt someone do just that, felt the edge of the cup at his lips, swallowed obediently. Warmth was slowly returning – he met the gazes of those bent over him in turn, and smiled.

"Sorry," he managed. "I'll… tell you later."

"Another story for another time?" That was Gwaine, relief and irony.

"Just rest, Merlin, don't worry about us." Something soft slid under his head, and then he could see Lancelot too. "You'll be all right."

The first instant he'd seen the gatekeeper, he'd expected the worst. Another magical enemy to threaten his prince and their kingdom. Not this time.

Peace.

"Yes," he told them. He watched varying levels of reassurance spread, and that warmed him, too. "We'll be all right."

 **A/N: If this seems an unsatisfactory ending, remember that the epilogue comes** _ **after**_ **this… For this arc, b/c we already know Uther is killed by the assassin in a few months, I'm assuming after the funeral and a respectable amount of time, Arthur would formally recognize Merlin/change the laws on magic/knight the rest of his Round Table guys/reclaim his sword when necessary.**

 **For this one, Lancelot lives. But b/c Arthur has been more open with Gwen – because her near-execution doesn't make them both stop to re-evaluate whether their relationship is a good idea at all – because Arthur doesn't need/want Agravaine's interference, I think maybe Lancelot would pine a bit more before moving on, but there wouldn't be any real reason to worry about an affair.**

 **Thank you to everyone who favorited, followed, and especially reviewed! I** _ **greatly**_ **appreciated every comment.**

 **Give me a week or so (for research purposes, mostly) and we'll move on to the next story my poll tells me is the most interesting –** _ **Son of Poseidon**_ **. Something** _ **completely**_ **different, but hopefully interesting and enjoyable!  
And. My NaNoWriMo original is nearly half posted over on fictionpress. Special thanks to Msomaji for reviewing! **


	26. Released by Truth - prologue

**A/N: So I said I wasn't going to do a sequel to this. It would just be, Arthur bringing magic back and giving Merlin a permanent position at court. I said.**

 **But, I got multiple requests/inquiries concerning Kilgarrah and the never-explained Balinor connection. And, the episode where Uther dies, is just before "Aithusa". Coincidence? Maybe. So here's something I also thought I'd never do, a making-magic-legal story. Full chapter 1 under separate story heading…**

 **(Recall that the last chapter chronologically of "Refined by Fire" was Ch.19 Ten Months Later, the rewrite of "The Wicked Day"…)**

* * *

 **Prologue: The King is Dead…**

 _Stay… you belong here._

For several moments - there in Arthur's bedchamber, just the two of them again as it had been so often in the past and he hadn't realized how much he _missed_ that – Merlin allowed himself to believe the words. Halfway through their shared breakfast, he believed Arthur's words.

But as food and drink began to revive his body, exhausted from the night spent in vigil with Arthur, his mind began to rove further than the four walls of the prince's bedchamber.

No, not the prince. The king. In all but name, maybe.

Merlin belonged at Arthur's side, that much was certain. But he wasn't just a manservant, anymore – nor were they on a dangerous quest, far from Camelot. His witnessed use of magic, trial and execution, had complicated things for him here. And it wasn't just, as a known sorcerer when magic was still punishable by death.

It wasn't even, everyone save a select few, believed him dead. It had been amusing to think of ghosting the corridors and shocking the handful of servants or guards who might see him, when he was living in hiding and didn't want anyone to believe him alive. If he was going to come back, like Arthur was thinking, that misconception would have to be corrected, at the very least…

Arthur, who hadn't said a word since they sat down, himself at the head of his table and Merlin at his right hand, hadn't taken a bite for some moments. Abruptly he ceased toying with his food to lay his fork down; Merlin said nothing as he shoved his chair back, and strode to the window to lean on the casement in an attitude Merlin knew well. Bothered by something he hadn't figured out yet.

A year ago, Merlin could have teased and insulted the matter out of him, and they could have had a discussion disguised as a verbal joust. He could have done it if Arthur had lost an argument with Morgana or a tournament match or even one of his own men on patrol.

But his _father_ …

Merlin turned his own fork over in his fingers, remembering his own experience. Had Arthur felt that, utterly helpless as his father's lifeblood stained his hands and life ebbed palpably in his arms?

"What are you thinking?" Arthur said.

Merlin glanced up to see that he hadn't turned from his window, and the view of the training field – which would probably be deserted, today. Out of respect. "Why?"

"You are never this quiet."

Faintly goading. Which was familiar.

"I was thinking the dishes need doing," Merlin said lightly.

And Arthur would have to be dressed in more formal attire – he tried to remember if Arthur had much black in his wardrobe, and realized he hadn't any idea, any longer. Orryn would know. But then, Arthur would require attending at a council meeting, almost surely – he'd have to speak to Gaius about the practical arrangements, and Geoffrey about the correspondence that would go out to Camelot's allies.

If Arthur snorted, it was too quiet for Merlin to hear. "Help yourself."

But Merlin probably couldn't set foot outside the room without causing panic, and raising issues that would complicate this day unbearably for his friend and king.

"Arthur," he said. The young king didn't move, arms crossed and chin tucked down on one fist. "I think I should go, after all."

"Well, surely you remember where the kitchens are."

Was it Merlin's imagination that his teasing sounded desperate? "Arthur…"

A moment passed, before Arthur shifted to study him expressionlessly – and for once Merlin couldn't tell what he was thinking. "You would keep hiding?"

"Yes," Merlin answered. "I mean, no, not… just, I can keep waiting, I don't mind..." He wanted to make it a joke, and say, _it won't always be like this, hot and noisy_ , like he'd teased Arthur once in the back room of Elyan's forge. But today was not a day for light-heartedness.

Into the silence came a quick light knock – Arthur recognized it as Merlin did, and raised his voice. "Come."

Merlin stood and turned as the door creaked open and Gwen in her favorite lavender dress, embroidered with flowers, slipped inside. Her glance took in Merlin at the table and the picked-over breakfast tray, before she wordlessly closed the door behind her, and crossed to Arthur. Rising on the toes of her slippers, she put her arms around his shoulders, cupping his neck in one hand. He deflated into her, holding her tightly with his face turned into her neck.

Merlin studied the toes of his boots and thought about the third reason he shouldn't stay.

They might've whispered, they might have kissed each other, but when Arthur cleared his throat, Merlin looked up to see that they'd drawn back a bit, though each still had an arm around the other – Gwen's at Arthur's waist, his over her shoulder. And Merlin was certain it hadn't even occurred to her, that Arthur's choice of wife was now subject to no one else but him.

"So, Guinevere," Arthur said – and there he was again, trying for a normal tone. "Help me convince Merlin that he should stay."

"I just think," Merlin said, attempting to explain, "not today. People don't know I'm even alive, it would cause panic –"

"Orryn knows, doesn't he?" Arthur interrupted.

Merlin met Gwen's eyes for confirmation, and nodded. Orryn was pragmatic and level-headed and unimaginative; he'd been surprised but not hysterical to see Merlin evidently alive and well. He accepted the truth of his own five senses without fearing more.

"Have him go with you, and he can explain how you're not a ghost, to everyone you see." Arthur seemed perfectly satisfied with that suggestion, though Gwen's jaw was set in her characteristically-gentle skepticism.

Merlin could just imagine. Over and over again, the curly-haired servant having to call after someone and convince them. Over and over the reactions of people he was once acquainted with. Maybe some relief – there had been many more sympathetic than gloating faces, at his execution – but probably, far more suspicion. He wasn't just a boy who'd learned a spell to defend his prince, and used it clumsily but effectively, anymore. He'd be seen as a sorcerer capable of strong magic. And deception.

The servants were a superstitious lot, anyway, as were most of the common people of Camelot. He couldn't imagine the reactions of the knights, nor the nobles…

"But Arthur," he tried to reason with his friend without hurting him even more, today, "there's still the problem of magic being illegal, you know the guards or the knights will expect to arrest me, and right now… I mean, after – um, last night… and before you're actually…"

"I think he's right," Gwen said.

Arthur twisted away from her incredulously. "What?"

"Listen, you want him here, so do I. So does Gaius – and you _know_ Merlin wants to stay." Arthur glanced at him, and Merlin wasn't sure what the king saw on his face. "But _think_. If he's seen here today, folks may think about and talk about a ghost or a sorcerer – but someone will say _murderer_. And that's a rumor that will follow you both."

Arthur took another step back from her, before turning to stare at Merlin. "I see," he said. "And you already thought of that, didn't you."

"The timing isn't good," Merlin said, pleading with him to understand. "Last night was too late for many people to be aware of what was going on, and this morning – if someone that everyone thought your father executed for sorcery is just _here_ , and to stay…" And under the new king's protection and favor.

Arthur dropped his head. Moments passed, and Merlin sent Gwen a wordless plea. She stepped to take Arthur's hand again. "Just not _today_ , Arthur," she emphasized softly.

"Today should be for you. And your father," Merlin said.

The king gave a single nod, without lifting his eyes. And Merlin knew, as if he'd already seen it, already lived it, that Arthur would hold a second night's vigil in the grand receiving hall, alone with the dying candles til the morning dawned a new day. And everyone else would arrive for the procession, down to the vaults where Uther's body would be laid to rest in the crypts with his ancestors. Then – barring complications of the sort Merlin himself would present, involuntarily – Arthur's coronation would be held tomorrow afternoon.

"I will send Leon," Arthur added, "out to the ruins. With him escorting you, there should be no… difficulties."

"Thank you, sire," Merlin said sincerely.

Arthur's face twisted just slightly; to cover it, he looked away toward the window so swiftly Merlin doubted what he'd seen. And to pretend he hadn't, he tucked his cloak over the crook of his arm; it was far too late in the morning for sneaking out, he'd have to use magic.

"I should… be going, then. The others will be wondering…" Arthur gave another nod of understanding, and Merlin crossed to him, reaching to grip his king's arm. "I believe in you," he said. "I can't imagine you feel ready for this – that you can see yourself as ever being ready for this, right now –" He remembered this feeling, himself; he still felt this feeling. "But you are capable, Arthur. All anyone can ask is your best – and you already do that."

He expected a smile, at least. Maybe half-incredulous, half-mocking, but a smile. A sarcastic inquiry as to where Merlin had picked up his bits of wisdom. But Arthur simply breathed, in and out, and acknowledged the words with another slight inclination of his head.

"Thank you for your willingness to help," he said. Neutrally. Almost… officially. A wrinkle appeared between Gwen's dark brows as she looked at him.

Merlin didn't let go. "I am sorry I wasn't here when you needed me."

"I am too," Arthur said softly.

He stepped back, called the words to mind – then hesitated. Somehow it was different, breaking the law with magic, now that it was Arthur's law. "With your permission, my lord?"

Arthur looked startled as well, as if he felt it, too. Looking the other way while he was a prince who disagreed with his father the king, might feel different to his sense of honor than condoning what the rest of the kingdom still considered evil. Finally he said, with another attempt at a more characteristic tone, "Go on, Merlin."

Gwen gave Merlin an encouraging nod, then looked up at their well-beloved friend. He felt better, knowing that she would be there for Arthur, and spoke the spell. " _Bedyrne me – Astyre me thanonweard!"_

Wind plucked at his clothing, and he closed his eyes against Arthur's expression – moments later feeling the dim and damp and draft of the ruins.

"Merlin!" Gwaine exclaimed, and he opened his eyes.

His two outlaw friends were crouched together at the hearth; Lancelot stood as a noise near the door behind Merlin drew his attention to Percival, just entering, with a slight pause to recognize that Merlin was back.

"So what happened?" Gwaine continued.

Merlin stepped to the round stone table that filled half their crumbling hall, draping his cloak over the back of one of the chair, as Percival joined them. "Uther was killed last night. Assassinated."

Gwaine stood. "He's dead?"

Merlin nodded; for a moment they were all silent, trying to adjust to a startling truth, the momentous change.

"How's Arthur?" Lancelot ventured.

"He's handling it." Merlin looked down at his cloak, adjusting the fold and fall of the rough material. "About as well as can be expected."

"What is it, then?" Percival said quietly to him. "We don't have to worry about execution anymore, if we're caught, right?"

Without answering the question, which was rather rhetorical anyway, Merlin said, "He's going to change."

Lancelot began to protest, but Gwaine's humor was gone, as he mouthed a silent but eloquent, _Ah_. And Merlin, who alone knew the truth of why Gwaine particularly might understand, held his gaze.

"You really think _King_ Arthur will be different from _Prince_ Arthur?" Percival asked seriously.

"He'll have to be," Gwaine said on a sigh. "He'll be the one giving orders, instead of choosing whether or not to obey. Giving instead of receiving reprimands…"

How much would Arthur change, though, was the question that concerned Merlin. And how much would Merlin himself have to change, in the days and weeks and months – years? – to come…


End file.
